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Enter Ennuigi
Dec. 21st, 2015 03:41 pmI decided that the B plot to the Peach/Bowser fic I'm working on is going to involve Luigi chasing after Mario and despairing over what his life has become.
To get myself in the mood, I started re-reading Le Mythe de Sisyphe, but it's not as bleak as I remember it being.
I therefore asked Google "what is the bleakest existentialist shit," and the search returned a bizarre piece of absurdist writing titled 5 of The Worst Possible Things That Could Ever Happen To You. It's kind of brilliant:
And so I, ever the concerned teacher and human being, placed a figurative bookmark in my rousing lesson and asked this child what was wrong. After many agonizing seconds of waiting, me silently praying he wasn't going to bring up, say, existentialism or war or a pervading fog of meaninglessness, all of these Important Questions to which I could provide no comforting answer—and praying too that he wasn't going to vomit on/cry on/otherwise soil these handouts, as I really needed them for the next class—this poor, innocent child finally worked up the courage, despite an obvious fear of what the truth may be, to ask me if shrimp were made of milk.
For what it's worth, I think the bleakest existentialist shit is probably T.S. Eliot, but not even for the sake of a giant turtle monster banging a mushroom princess will I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock again.
To get myself in the mood, I started re-reading Le Mythe de Sisyphe, but it's not as bleak as I remember it being.
I therefore asked Google "what is the bleakest existentialist shit," and the search returned a bizarre piece of absurdist writing titled 5 of The Worst Possible Things That Could Ever Happen To You. It's kind of brilliant:
And so I, ever the concerned teacher and human being, placed a figurative bookmark in my rousing lesson and asked this child what was wrong. After many agonizing seconds of waiting, me silently praying he wasn't going to bring up, say, existentialism or war or a pervading fog of meaninglessness, all of these Important Questions to which I could provide no comforting answer—and praying too that he wasn't going to vomit on/cry on/otherwise soil these handouts, as I really needed them for the next class—this poor, innocent child finally worked up the courage, despite an obvious fear of what the truth may be, to ask me if shrimp were made of milk.
For what it's worth, I think the bleakest existentialist shit is probably T.S. Eliot, but not even for the sake of a giant turtle monster banging a mushroom princess will I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock again.
