Jack Kerouac

I'd like to live the sort of life about which you feel compelled to keep a diary that (once the events it chronicles have long since occurred) you then feel compelled to publish into the sort of novel (after, of course, changing the names of your easily-offended friends) that college students around the world obsessively dog-ear and highlight in coffeehouses in their spare time. Isn't that a good goal?

Ignore me. I apologize. I'll retreat to my Anais Nin erotica.