Minimalism

To quote great pieces of high school English short-story fiction containing stolen witticisms that will leave public educated and public subsidized teachers gasping for breath, “the irony was palpable”. The minimalist’s room was a mess. Pizza boxes were strewn about and grease caked on the counter. His mother would have been upset with him if she were there. Things would have been better but life happens. And by happens, I mean that life changes and typically for the worse. Previous to his fall, his life had been a grand Clamence and his briefcase had been organized. His girlfriend had left him for some sleazeball and he had tumbled. His game had fallen off the bull of life. He laid on his couch, stomach bursting, and waited for people to stop posting that prep crap on their ‘blogs’. In a few weeks, maybe months, he’d rise and start working out; he’d flex his minimalist muscles and return to his grandeur. Maybe Jil Sander would give him a call. Maybe even a ‘blogger’ would post a picture of a whole-cut, thin-lapeled cheesecake of a WIWT.