Op-Ed
Something Lewd [wink-wink] ;-)
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Byrne it Down
.jpg "Byrne it Down")
It’s a slap-dash bit of work you’re about to read. I tried to weasel my way out of writing it and got a euphemized “hell no” from my editor, so I put it off and put it off, and now it’s a half hour until deadline and I’ve got the mental acuity of a fish stick on Quaaludes.
Topic trouble is a miserable thing. I had big plans earlier in the week after reading an online poster’s response to an earlier column, enjoining me to “write something lewd.” Lacking a better idea and tired of writing in the shadow of Jenna B., I penciled “lewdness” into my academic planner and set aside a two-hour block on Saturday for just such a purpose.
A bag of Scoop! Tostitos and several bouts of Guitar Hero III later and there was no lewdness to be found. But I’m loath to brush off reader requests so, for your pleasure:
“Sebastian slid his rough hand over Bernice’s eager, velvet flesh. ‘I must have you,’ he growled. ‘No my lord, we mustn’t,” gasped Bernice, ‘Lord Winchester will—’ Sebastian grasped her to him and kissed her roughly ‘To hell with Winchester!’. ‘Oh!’ moaned Bernice as Sebastian tore open her corset and placed”
There’s your smut, you lechers, and you’ll get no more from this quarter.
In any case, that idea was DOA and I haven’t thought of another. I’m not busy. I just don’t want to do it. There’re a lot of things I haven’t wanted to do lately, like buy gasoline or wear my retainers. And so The Little Honda That Couldn’t has to putter around with a carburetor full of sludge and I wake every morning to the fear of sudden-onset snaggle-tooth.
Other maladies include incoherency and googley eyes, symptoms attributable to academic overexposure or my jubilee of allergy medications. I suspect it is a combination of both since, after proclaiming, “I like jam. It’s like toast without toast!” two days ago at a pollen count of 11.7 out of 12, I still find it a logically defensible statement at a count of 1.1.
Or, my disorientation and apathy for the present could stem from ambivalence about the future. I did some light reading recommended by Arts and Sciences Advising to try to quell any post-graduate fears, but no dice. And by “light” I mean I read the title, What Color Is Your Parachute? and realized it was a trick question. I don’t own a parachute. Nice try self-help book.
I lowered the bar and tried to just visualize the arc of my senior year, but couldn’t remember what classes I’m going to take or why. Or why I went to college. I also forgot my middle name for a moment. It occurred to me that it’s hard to care when you don’t know what you’re working toward. But that’s a sappy explanation and I don’t care for it. Judith Butler and Sudafed are to blame, when all is said and done.
But yes, back to the point I never broached. Writing a column has been great fun in spite of my present topic trouble. There is fan e-mail and disgruntled e-mail and e-mail from people with ridiculous names, although the dictates of politeness prevent me from giving examples. It has given me something definite to accomplish every other week — something more satisfying than a letter grade — and a place to express frustration. I kick people much less often these days.
Other perks of writing a column for The Sun include fear of getting stabbed, cryptic winks from strangers, and filler for your resume. I’ll probably do it again next year if Wittenberg doesn’t fire me for bringing up the winking issue while he's trying to recruit writers. It’s a huge problem.
If you've vaguely entertained having a column of your very own, stop shilly-shallying and do it. My one regret is thinking up the title, “Skorton Hears A Boo,” and being too lazy to conform to a Seussical rhyme scheme for 800 words. But I'm sure there will be opportunities next semester.
Carolyn Byrne is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at cbyrne@cornellsun.com. Byrne it Down appeared alternate Tuesdays this semester.