Pathetic Human Emulation

I want to write a short story.

Or maybe I just want to have written a short story, so I can show other people that I have written a short story, so they can think: “Wow, he wrote a short story,” and I can feel like David Foster Wallace, the current object of my affection. 


Even the most Enlightened among us engage in some form of hero worship. We are only monkeys after all. I guess it’s healthier to endure this pathetic reflex than it is to go live alone out in the woods like Walden and trap kill and eat ducks for food and slowly go insane in a much less relatable way. Even then you're still emulating someone. 

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