Procrastination Nation!

A very long time ago, when I was in that weird dark and twisty phase that all adolescents go through (lots of black, lots of Trent Reznor, and lots of humiliatingly bad poetry), I read a book called Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. I think they made a movie of it starring Christina Ricci, which totally makes sense. Especially because the book is a rather graphic autobiography of a coke-snorting Harvard-attending depressed Jewish American Princess. Except it's less Sex and the City and more Requiem for a Dream.

Anyway, I remember telling my friend John (who incidentally recommended that I read it), "Why is this girl so whiny? She has like a fucking breakdown every 2 paragraphs." To which he responded with, "Yes. And she's CLINICALLY DEPRESSED."

Then, a few years after that, when I was in that weird sexy librarian phase (fashionably wrong tortoise shell glasses, lots of Charles Mingus, and lots of humiliatingly long conversation discussions about the meaning of Rothko paintings while tripping heavily on mind altering substances), I read a book called Bong Water by Michael Hornburg. I think they made a movie of it starring Luke Wilson, which totally makes sense. Especially because the book is a rather convoluted mess of unrequited love and shitty apartments in New York. Except it's less Felicity and more Rent (but thankfully without the songs and i don't think anyone dies of AIDS or knew how many seconds were in a year).

Anyway, I remember telling my friend Becky (who incidentally recommended that I read it), "Man, why is this guy so whiny? Why can't he get his shit together and move on? He's almost 30 for crying out loud." To which she responded with, "Yes. And he smokes weed every day."

Fast forward to this weekend. I found myself in my yuppie home in my yuppie neighborhood where gardening is the new hot shit, flipping through the yuppie pages of Domino magazine. There was a spread of a designer bathroom, and on the wall was a blow up poster of the cover of Bong Water, and on the toilet was a copy of Prozac Nation.

The yuppie who owned that bathroom was a mother of 3 and an inventor of fancy, expensive aromatic room sprays. And I'm not sure if she threw those things in her bathroom because she thought it would be cool and hip, or if she is trying to subliminally tell the readers of Domino that fictional characters belong in the shitter (albeit a very fancy one at that).