Your Moment of Vomit-Inducing Sentiment For The Day

The other night, j and I had a profound, in-depth, 45-minute argument (that kept us both awake past our typical bedtime) on capitalism v. socialism. He accused me of playing devil's advocate. I accused him of being arrogant and condescending. We came to no agreement whatsoever, wound ourselves up enough that we were still talkative come bedtime, and ended up vehemently analyzing each other's argumentative styles. Then we went to bed, laughed at ourselves, kissed goodnight, and fell asleep.

He pokes fun at me for idolizing writers who died long before I was born and for having a sort of strange scholar-crush on Shelley and Keats. I mock him for finding an interest in poetry that, to me, has all the charm and interest of a bare, dusty cabinet.

I champion capitalism, mock socialist politics, get embarrassed when he buys copies of the Socialist Review, and deny staunchly that I have an interest in theory (with the exception of gender studies and New Historicism). He wants desperately to be placed on a government watch list, considers himself a proud member of the pomo army and arches his eyebrow at queer theory.

But we have our Saturday night anime marathons, our regular episodes of ATHF, our silly academic in-jokes and our ridiculous arguments. We have an absurd sense of humor, a love for deep conversations, and a penchant for becoming way too attached to our cat. And we love each other a lot.

There's nobody in this world I'd rather argue with.

That said, either today or tomorrow, I'm going to write my post on poetry and why his idea of poetic aesthetics is ridiculous, and all bets will be off. Abandon hope, all ye who challenge the notions of a Romantic scholar.

- b-