This Is a Paper

I never married, but before you nod your head, say “ah!” and envision some dried prune of a thing with lipstick on her yellowing teeth, I’ll remind you of my uncanny Italianate beauty, which combined with my cooler Finnish sangfroid, makes many a tummy rumble with guttural desire. Then, of course, there is the series of torrid affairs, extracurricular to which is my practice of every year or so, plucking one lucky student  this year the impossibly beautiful, and potentially brilliant, James  to use for my own hedonistic purposes. James is particularly lucky, because I have designated him the assistant editor of my long awaited autobiography. This project, for which I intend James to receive the highest departmental honors and that much-needed, incipient whiff of intrigue so necessary to the launching of any brilliant academic career, should take the better part of this Junior and Senior years at (name of school). Then, upon completion, if the project has not caused him to lose his senses completely, I intend to thoroughly deflower his mind with meticulous intricacy and pleasure before allowing him to graduate, and ultimately discarding him like a used sheet of Kleenex.

I should add that, despite my best intentions, I have made enemies; or rather, I have enemies, and with the best of intentions, I have sought eagerly the means to justify their ill will.

First, I suffer from, and glory in, an irrational sense of entitlement, a fact that is, of course, both torturously complicated and tantamount to a yawn festival. So common is this phrase, but so uniquely do I adore, and adorn it. However, in the interests of brevity, this sense of entitlement causes me to give enormously of myself in unconditional excessive splendor to some lucky soul for a very concentrated period of time; and then, inevitably, when he/she proves incapable (as he/she always is) of appreciating the enormity of his/her luck in having attracted my attention (even if conditionally so) to flick that once-desired person off my arm like a speck of lint. One such unhappy soul, a mild-mannered Professor of Astronomy, named, aptly, Robert E. Light, described this last as “being made unwillingly mothlike and then