Bathtub contemplations about how HST once copied The Great Gatsby. I just try to imagine how such an exercise might have saved Wendy and Danny. There is nothing dull about the prose of F. Scott Fitzgerald, all of this lazy nothing headed towards a delirious, jealous car wreck. How girls like Daisy make my stomach turn. I live in a town littered with plastic Daisies but without the semblance of good breeding that would make such a woman slightly more tolerable. I still never get why a man who changed his entire fortune would bother with that green light at all.
It bothers me because I think I am missing something about humanity and quite possibly romance. Then again he was married to Zelda who famously distracted him from writing to the point that Hemingway mentioned it. Maybe Hemingway didn’t get it either.
Then I think what would it feel like to type out Fear and Loathing. I feel like it would be more madness than re-reading Campaign Trail after this election. Pussy. There are 120 degrees of insanity out in the oppressive wilderness that defines nature with a single brush of heat. Maybe it will grow like a virus and I will forever be damned to wear bucket hats and smoke Dunhills.
Of course, most people who adopt the look never sit down and try to write a single word. It’s as if a journalist and writer are more important for the substances he abuses the truths that he told. If you actually idolized the man, it stands to reason you might sit down at a typewriter every once and awhile instead of snorting lines of coke hoping they still make ether. At least run for sheriff. Follow the Hell’s Angels or quote 15th-century poets. Actually, do something. Any asshole can take drugs. A man ought to be more than that. Fuck, it’s what passes for romance these days.
Maybe that’s what I never got about romance or American Dreams. . . . the whole damn thing is unrequited.