Then I saw her face...
A New Year miracle! Just when I had completely stopped caring, what fish should swim into the 'lil NYTM barrel but Heidi fucking Julavits, in answer to the urgent question: What kind of douchebag goes to Kyoto for a year and thinks only about doughnuts?
My American relationship to sugar is always to want more of it; to encounter a sweet that doesn't court abuse in order to be enjoyed destabilizes my entire concept of craving-cruller-gluttony-happiness. I feel these moments of so-called contentment when I have no pointed desires -- not a petit four to follow the chocolates to follow the tarte Tatin, not even a salt-funky cheese course as counterbalance -- to be physically unbearable and thus, by quick extrapolation, existentially crippling. Does this mean that contentment is anathema to my person? That contentment is a punishing mind-bender (to be content is to be less content than when you weren't content)? That this period of postcollege limbo has been encapsulated, in all its dumb, stereotypical hand-wringing, by a bean cake?
Never before has someone struggled so hard to write about so interesting a topic only to produce such tepid narcissism. With, admittedly, the possible exception of certain geriatric American novelists and/or New Yorker contributors. At least they know the difference between a paella and a cataplana. Shit, even Douchebag McGee* knows that.
*Sorry, can't remember his name. But he is a (minor) douche.
**That is what "almodovaresque" means, right?