I hate Infinite Jest podcast

Once upon a time when I made an angsty existential short film

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Entire Free Churro Script (Bojack Horseman)

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[wind blowing] [shuddering] [vehicle approaching] [grunting] [panting] [tires screech] Yes, yes, I see you. Get in. Get in. Your mother is having another one of her episodes. Last night, she went to see A Doll’s House with a couple girlfriends, and now she has ideas. I emerged from my sanctum this afternoon to discover that not only had she not made me lunch, which is a meal I need in order to live, but she’d, furthermore, locked herself in the bedroom to weep. Loudly. Now it’s one thing for a woman to weep, but when they do it at such a volume you can hear it through the door, that’s when you know that they’re doing it just for the attention. Anyway, I was able to cobble together a sandwich for myself, so I’m the real hero of the story. [horn honking] [tires screeching] It was a couple hours later when I realized I was on a good run with my novel. I had this really interesting sentence that kept going for pages and pages, and I thought about how rare it is to really get in the groove
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Infinite Jest is an Infinite Pain in THE ASS (a half-ass guide to help you finish reading Infinite Jest)

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You might have heard of this little book called 'Infinite Jest'. It's also affectionately called 'the encyclopedic novel'. It's a crime to call Infinite Jest a novel. It is more than a novel. It is an unreadable tome that defies easy explanations. It is a tool made for self-flagellation by the Supreme Lord David Foster Wallace. This novel about addiction is addictive in parts and unreadable for most parts. And after you're done reading you have more questions than answers. You feel like you've wasted your three years on a book that you shouldn't have started in the first place. You're stuck; you search online, and you find answers that are vague for the most part. You find that you're supposed to read the first chapter once again after you've done finished reading the ENTIRE FUCKING BOOK. Why? because the chronology of the entire book is fucked up, on purpose to make the reading experience even more unbearable. Also, this book has a
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Bonedog (Poem from "I'm Thinking of Ending Things")

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Coming home is terrible… whether the dogs lick your face or not, whether you have... ...a wife, or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely... so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks... ...long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing, because you did not want to return. Coming home is... just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots. Se
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