An open letter to James Joyce:

After reading Ulysses, I've found what my brothers had been trying to explain to me all these years, that reading was hard, that class wasn't fun, and that I shouldn't love books so much. Yes, Heart of Darkness wasn't my style. But it didn't make me cry, it didn't make me fall asleep at a rate that competes with my oceanography textbook. No James, your book holds a special place in my heart, a special place in my soul. And while on my deathbed, I will shout to the heavens that the better let me in, because I didn't read Ulysses for nothing.

As I was reading, I couldn't help but think how you might ruin my sixth love, the internet. How much fun you would have with non-sequiturs and playing around with images, music files, and the like. Trust me, I'm glad you didn't live to see the advent of the internet. (Of course, the military created it; so why not use it for evil?) I know that this will never be pretentious as your writing. (You don't see me giving you links to my work in self-reference?) And yeah, it's finals week and part of me is tired and worn out. I'm not really sure how you might deal with this pressure. Are you the student who does everything early? At the last minute? The one who works on their 'great piece of literature' instead of finals and winds up never receiving a diploma because of outstanding library fines?

Yeah, I admit that perhaps I was too hard on you. Perhaps I judged the text. Perhaps I found your pony play boring and wanted to know what was so wrong with me that I found any pony play boring. Making me wonder if you ever experienced pony play or was perhaps mocking something you saw as sexual deviance, but then giving it to Bloom, our common man. (By the way, this non-common woman didn't connect with him.) I also wanted to know why my brain was melting when I couldn't concentrate or read. So instead, I procrastinate by writing this letter to you.

signed,

A student