If there is a meaning I’ve made up for my life, if only to keep myself from resenting loved ones for whose sake I refrain from jumping off a bridge, it’s the pleasure of consuming and (when I can) making written and recorded distractions — confections or truth-scouring, they all give pleasure, even if it is the pleasure of grinding your face in God’s fecal accident. So sometimes when I feel really shitty, I Google phrases that I hope someone’s written something about. “Monsters of Consciousness” yielded this guy, whose intense loopiness is delightful for about 30 seconds or so:
But the real comedy gold didn’t enter the building till I stole his “[enter entity] is the way” formula (his chosen entity was money; still not sure if he was kidding or not) and typed in Juvenal, the Roman satirist.
Juvenal is my favorite poet ever, probably. He’s the root of most of what I hold dear in literature; I’m sure every fan of his through the ages has probably thought the same thing, but he makes me feel that, though humanity is corrupt and suffering in every century, it was in his time and then again in mine that men were most extremely punished for their virtues and rewarded for their vices. Snivel.
So, with high hopes, I typed in “Juvenal is the way,” hoping to find a kindred soul who hasn’t already passed through the bowels of a million generations of worms. (Although it would be kind of hilarious if a molecule or so of what used to be Juvenal turned up in Carla Bruni’s bottle of lube, eh?)
Well, I didn’t get any hagiographies… I got something funnier. I got this:
Juvenal Hall: it’s where they put the leering, white marble busts of wayward teens. Something tells me this might not seem so funny if I weren’t so tired, but ah well.