Hot Tub Doomsday
It is the end of the world and there are like fourteen academics in
this hot tub with me right now. It is basically a cauldron full of all
of humanity's worst failures and wickedness.
Four college freshmen boys with erections and slippery, chicken-pale
skin clamor to put their hairy, fungal toes on the jets. One of them is
my least favorite student of all time and he is fucking pissed about
An old professor and his new mistress sit in a circle of even older
white guy poets talking about how amazing it is that because of the
internet there are no ideas anymore, and what a relief it is that
they'll never have to come up with an idea again. They move on to
chatter. All of their ideas are
plagiarized from the other night's lecture by another poet from a
different and better university.
The professor and his mistress make out underwater and talk shit about
his wife's ass.
I am of course the only other woman in here. I read aloud a story I
know is great, but all of the poets whisper through my reading, then
say in unison that narrative is "the bottom feeder of literature."
I am so dumb for not joining the Peace Corps or becoming a nun or a
kindergarten teacher or a mommy.
I sink to the bottom's silence and wait.
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