
James Joyce reads.
… and thinks my shit is so much better than this.

James Joyce reads.
… and thinks my shit is so much better than this.
Joyce. The man with whom I had an intense, love/hate relationship last semester.
… and thinks my shit is so much better than this.
I’m just glad he’s not writing letters. Blech.
I hope that’s an old letter from his wife. ‘Cause that would be gross.