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Happy Bloomsday, cocksuckers! Bloomsday is the day we honor the patron saint of my pretentiousness, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce. 110 years ago, in Dublin, Ireland, Nora Barnacle gave old Jamesy a handjob so good it changed the course of literary history.

^now kiss

I don't have time to get into my whole thing with Joyce right now. I do, actually, but I don't feel like it. I'm unemployed and depressed. I'm too busy eating cookies and watching Youtube shorts like a lobotomite. I'm too busy listening to the scratched to hell first disc of the Beatles' White Album I got from a pawn shop in Charlottesville, Virginia, that came in a sleeve for their 1966 album Revolver, a sleeve I had on display in my old Cville room but that I'd yet to hang up in my RVA place when it got pissed on by Eddie who I'd left in my room unsupervised for too long.

There is an irony to Bloomsday overlapping with Father's Day this year that someone smarter and more driven than yours truly could unpack.