But the point of this post is not that atrocity.
The point of this post is that, whenever I read something like Kerouac (and modern lit buffs would be horrified at just how broadly I'd define "something like Kerouac"), I'm strangely inspired. Inspired to sit down and write something, anything, and then keep a straight face while I try to peddle it to people, and then eventually become famous for it. It'd be a lot easier than trying to be the next Tolstoy or something. Except maybe if I wasn't also a drug addict nobody would take me seriously.
Here's my first attempt.
Doesn't that make you want to read more???"It's the history of science," she muttered, and looked at the stars. Her long black hair smelled like smoke and there was mud on her shoe. I watched one string leave her mouth, and then another, following helplessly the helium's pull. Like us, I thought, prisoners underneath those same stars. Pulled and pulled, and following. No way to stop it. It was cold and hard. Forrest walked by, humming "99 Bottles of Beer." The coffee was bitter, and I wondered if I should tell her about yesterday. It didn't matter anyway, because my train was leaving in an hour.