Sex and McSweeney's

Hello there. My computer is broken (actually smashed to pieces!). So for now I write to you from the office of The Maneater, where I occaisionaly hang out to pretend that I still work here. Now let me tell you why my english class is better than yours.

The class is called "Contemporary Fiction Writing and the Publishing Industry." It is taught by two young men, one of whom has a gold earing. They are very hip, and much more "with it" than any of my previous english professors. Our reading list is basically composed of things I would read anyways. For instance, The Virgin Suicides or Sex In The City. I'm actually dreading that one a bit, Sex In The City. I think this is mostly derrived from my aversion to people (those who are fictional, as well as those composed of bones and skin and such) who participate in sex with little regard for love. All of these women do that, except maybe Charlotte, who is the cutest one anyways. But I digress.
We will also be reading (required to read!) McSweeney's Literary Quarterly #15. Try and beat that english class! Even if you're in that intro to film class that is somehow considered an english class, you still have to go to class at like 7 at night. That's dinner time, not class time.

Speaking of McSweeney's, not only are they very in touch with my views on children, but my taste in music as well, as they recommend both The Killers (fuck you, that song is good) and Sufjan Stevens. It's clear that we are so close in intellect and mental tract, that I will not be surprised (and you should not be either) if Dave Eggers himself soon calls me on the telephone, "just to chat."