The Mail Call

I got a depressing-ish email a couple days ago from the book distributor who sold me 1984 through Amazon. My order was lost, shredded, eaten by ravenous moths, confiscated by The Man, or otherwise fucked up, so I’ll have to get my Orwell fix elsewhere.

Oh, God. However shall I find a copy of a book that is a staple of summer reading lists around the country? It’s not like Barnes and Noble starts unloading cases of them every April, jacking the prices up until the August procrastinators have to sell a kidney to pass English. [/end sarcasm. For now.] Oddly enough, though, my university campus bookstore doesn’t carry them. Shall have to venture off campus. I think I might get a copy with the eyeball cover. Those are creepy.  And in paperback.

But! In the snail mail, I found something appetizing:

A giant piece of cardboard ravioli with a literary center. A lot better than actual ravioli.

I’ve been wondering whether to actually call Slaughterhouse-Five a dystopian novel. It’s not about a made-up society constructed on its own to be dystopian; it’s a version of a real event from Vonnegut’s world that he satirized  into a dystopia.

But it’s still about a broken society, and more importantly it’s suppose to be damn good. That’s plenty enough excuse for me to use it.

I wasn’t going to start this blog until classes ended for me April 26, because I’ll have a good two weeks of a relaxed schedule before I start my summer work, but the first book I ordered came like a day and a half after I order it and it got me excited. Books or things that come for me in the mail make me smile, so when it’s both at the same time I feel the urge to celebrate. Writing nerds celebrate by starting a blog like it’s 2005, yo.

Peace out and word to that mother of yours. No. I refuse to steal from Vanilla Ice for my outro. I’ll just steal something my next door neighbor said a few minutes ago when she found her room locked: “Damn people and their hormones.”