One thing about the last night of class

I only mentioned David Foster Wallace once. Seriously. Hanging out with The Teacher and four other writers at Grumpy’s and he only came up once. Granted that once was a five-minute mini-lecture delivered in breathless gasps that included “I love him, I love him, and he hated Updike.” But at least it was only once and it didn’t even include David Foster Wallace’s thoughts on experimental writing which I have adopted as my own (that it’s more for writers than for readers and it asks readers to really work hard and often without any sort of great reward).

That is all.

Oh, I also forgot my favorite water bottle on the table and that makes me sad.

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