Found yet another perfect distraction to stall me from writing my paper. Ran some errands this afternoon. Which basically meant that I needed to get new surf shorts because the pair I own had magically shrunk--or I had ballooned--depends on what I want to believe. (Over the weekend, my friend JC expressed amazement at my spectacular ability to expand: "Amazing! It's only a week since I last saw you, and you're..." voice trails off as I tightened my grip on my fork, ready for World War III.)
So surf shorts. But before I got to the shop, I passed by Booksale. And you know Booksale: it's evil. Just pure evil! Took me a while but here's what I got for a whopping 95 pesoses: (1) Salinger's Franny and Zooey, with the white cover and green stripes from the 1960s; (2) The O. Henry Awards from the 70s; (3) Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. I have a pirated copy of this one back from sci-fi class, but it's just twenty bucks so I got it as well.
And my prized find is (4) One Hot Second: Stories about Desire, and it's for young adults, yey! The collection seems promising enough. From secret crushes to first kisses, first times and everything else in between. I wish I found this book at the start of the sem, when it would have been the most useful, and not right now when I'm cramming for deadlines and papers, which are still blissfully ignored. If you were me and you were made to choose between Gayatri Spivak (or Homi Bhaba or one of them Africans--it doesn't matter) and hormonal teenagers, between one hot second and death by postcolonial theory, which would you elect to read? No contest, right? Now, if only these damn theorists wrote in fluid prose and just quit the polysyllables, I'd be a happy kitty.
*I was going to call this entry "(Don't) give me theory or give me death!" then I recoiled at the awful grammar. So there.