That life is a series of challenges is axiomatic. But not all of life's challenges are equal. Some are more daunting, more enervating, just more life draining than others. My latest Everest is an English Composition Course I'm taking at the Community College.
First, let me say that I'm borderline moronic. If more need be said, be it also known that I'm beyond the border of illiterate. Not in the sense that I cannot read. Rather that the most intellectually engaging text I read during my week might be an ancient copy of an Archie and Jughead comic book lying about my house. I've allowed my brain to atrophy to the extent that when I try to read essays from the assigned textbook, I cannot comprehend ideas so foreign to what normally fill my day. It's difficult to consider, for example, the merit of Sartre's existential philosophy, when for the last ten years the most complex issue I've dealt with is whether I should use Fab or Ajax to so my whites.
When I consider issues so beyond the little sphere of my limited existence, my brain swells; and the painful pressure it forms against my unyielding skull renders me as close to unconscious as I can be without falling out of my seat.
As if deciphering strange ideas from these essays were not enough torment, I must also write my own essays about them. Observing me during this stage would be a delight for any sadist. Pen in hand, I sit at my writing table awaiting, like a bride whose groom is late to the altar, the arrival of the single idea needed to begin etching something onto the blank page staring up laughingly at me. But my Muse does not come; and so I sit twirling my hair,