2003-10-04
If you want a Pulitzer Prize in fiction, just start sleeping around with members of the Pulitzer Prize Board and telling them how special they are and that these are the best finger sandwiches you've ever had (and we know - you've had a lot of finger sandwiches, you dirty slut). Maybe parade around their apartment in nothing but one of their pinpoint oxfords that you took (without asking) from their closet (perhaps they intended to wear it that day, but now there's a raspberry jam stain that the drycleaner will have to get out, isn't there? You are perhaps the most inconsiderate jerkoff I've ever met). Then just giggle as you stand over the stove, drifting in and out of idle conversation, overcooking the eggs to the point where they are only good as a reminder of how awful eggs can get. Then, while they are at work, eat all the ice cream, steal a bottle of top-shelf liquor, leave a note making sure they know how special they are, leave lots of hearts in the margins of the letter and stumble out of the apartment in a half-drunk haze as you try to find the phone numbers of the National Book Award committee or Swedish Academy in your purse. Didn't you save them on your cell phone? It seems to have worked for this guy.
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