Kovacs' journal, February 28th, 2011. :
Discarded pie in Quad this morning, Doc Martin tread on soggy pastry. This campus is afraid of me. I have seen the admission letters.
Bodies block the stairwells as corpses clog sewers, effluent backing up InfoCommons toilets, ruining sneakers.
Whores and sodomites preen like peacocks, oversized glasses and skinny jeans. Anime lolitas, grown-up prostitots.
Cockroaches huddle in high school cliques, deer in headlights, hiding behind bravado and ignorance. Arts students could have been saved, could have learned trades, like my father, worked way out of struggle street like Prime Minister Key. Instead they follow the dronings of lectures and communists, and didn't realize that the trail leads to Burger King until it's too late.
There's conjoint degrees, don't tell me they didn't have a choice.
Young Labour, Amnesty on Campus, Greens, AUSA, feminists and queers. The communists are everywhere.
Children proud to sit in Shadows, all afternoon. Their vice is idleness, the youth are weak, grain liquor in the morning is cereal.
Like herds of demented cows, stood in thoroughfares, pressed up against lecture theatre doors, there is no escape. Invest in electrified cattle prod, ask Dr. Dreiburg to procure one. He has the time, he has tenure.
Students, the best and brightest of the future, too stupid to learn which part of the toilet to piss on.
InfoCommons, library computers, full of students using Facebook. Always talking, saying nothing.
No compromise. The theatre, full of students looking down at me, crying "Grade us!"
I stare back and whisper, "D"
Ha! Perfect.
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