Proust Proust Proust Proust Proust, the Palinode said, from his hospital bed.
Are you talking about Proust again?, I asked.
Yes. Proust Proust Proust Proust. Proust, he said.
It may make me look like a troglodyte, but I am no fan of Proust. If he lived now, he would have had a therapist and come out of the closet already rather than written excessively precise narratives in which his love interests had feminized versions of male names.
After having weathered periodic Proust updates for MONTHS now, I said, Bloody hell, and rolled my eyes for added emphasis on the word hell.
Ow! Fuck! Ow ow ow! I yelled when the right side of my head was shot through with pain.
What's wrong? he asked.
My right eye hurts, I said.
A headache? he asked.
No, I rolled my eye too hard, I said.
It's true. You can hurt yourself with sarcasm. And it can take a week-and-a-half to heal.
I am a participant in NaBloPoMo.