Plath

The explosion of stimuli consuming my brain that has been backed up causing swelling and pain like a 3 am Friday night drunk tease finally blew its load reading the selections of Plath's poetry. Not that I didn't appreciate the mind numbing monotonous futile characters which appeared as tiny dancers in the stories which my eyes read as writing but my brain interpreted as rubbish...Those crayola crayon four finger over the top thumb 4th grade characters I am referring to come from the writings of Julia Alvarez, Tennesee Williams, and Tony Morrison. Between the inept biography of an awkward Catholic Dominican Republic Immigrant (Alvarez) whose social skills are atrociously lacking and inability to culturally adapt closely parallel those of a primitive repressed monkey figuring out for the first time what to do with the selectively elongated third leg that appears every morning... to the Oedipus complex writings of Williams whose obsessively left brained left handed bipolar sentences left rooting from his mother and leafing off his alcoholic abusive father. If I wanted to hear a nancy boy whine about his daddy and how he can't defend his mother from a drunk I'll go throw up. Lastly Toni Morrison. Wow nothing to say it was long drawn out and did not have a spicy contemporary feel... SURPRISE 170 pages later. So LETS GET TO Plath. She was dementedly entertaining and psychotically arousing. Who cares if she baked her head in an oven. She was the only author that didn't cause me to take another shot of burbon and contemplate what the inside of my brain looks like. The End.