Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man or "James Jackass Joyce"

I stared at him, disgust curling my lips, “You know, that’s why you’ve got ten thousand Pat Barkers and only one Jack Kerouac. Because after reading him, all you want to do is this,” and I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to barf.

“He’s just like that other idiot,” I waved my hand impatiently, “what’s his name? Not T.S. Eliot, but he’s from the 20’s, too, you know, early 20^th century. You like him, “ I said.

My husband laughed.

I bent over to examine the bookshelves near my side of the bed, “Oh, yeah. James Jackass Joyce. Portrait of a Whiner as a Young Man.”

This made my husband laugh out loud, “I like that! James Jackass Joyce. And you should really have your glasses on when you’re looking at me like that, so you can look over them.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you can tell from my mouth I’m disgusted. I mean, you never hear women who really like him because they’re all like, ‘Hey, dipwad, welcome to my life for a day as a mother and then see what you have to complain about. Tch,” I finished disgustedly. “I just can’t stand him. What a jackass.”