From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700 Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at , line breaks in verse have been converted to s, which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given a too-small viewport. This commit also includes a makefile edit to reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the pandoc filter. --- i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html | 14 +++++++------- 1 file changed, 7 insertions(+), 7 deletions(-) (limited to 'i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html') diff --git a/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html b/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html index ce8740e..c7349ae 100644 --- a/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html +++ b/i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html @@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
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I wanted to tell you something in order to
explain the way I feel about the Universe,
its workings, etc. But I couldn’t yesterday
—I’m sorry—I wanted only to ball
myself up and cry all day. It was the sixteenth
day in a row this happened to me, and to be

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more than two weeks waiting to cry is,
especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,
absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,
I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe
kept telling you to quit having such a ball
and that you should have died, like, yesterday.

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At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday
you really were meant to die, but since you still are,
you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,
“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into
a hole and fucking died!" And then the Universe
punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen

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times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth
birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole." Yesterday,
at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe
refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to be,
when that Marvell line about “rolling our stuff into one ball”
just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.

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Something else that may come as a surprise to
you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen
days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.
(That’s not entirely true—yesterday
I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)
Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—

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because all it has ever wanted, this Universe
that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,
and even before that, made a place in which I could be—
all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen
steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday
and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,

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but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be
something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday
morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.

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I wanted to tell you something in order toexplain the way I feel about the Universe,its workings, etc. But I couldn’t yesterday—I’m sorry—I wanted only to ballmyself up and cry all day. It was the sixteenthday in a row this happened to me, and to be

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more than two weeks waiting to cry is,especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universekept telling you to quit having such a balland that you should have died, like, yesterday.

+

At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterdayyou really were meant to die, but since you still are,you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,“No, I meant you should’ve crawled intoa hole and fucking died!" And then the Universepunches you right in the gut, something like sixteen

+

times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenthbirthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole." Yesterday,at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universerefuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to be,when that Marvell line about “rolling our stuff into one ball”just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.

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Something else that may come as a surprise toyou: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteendays, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.(That’s not entirely true—yesterdayI had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—

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because all it has ever wanted, this Universethat gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,and even before that, made a place in which I could be—all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteensteps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterdayand step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,

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but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could besomething as hard as all that, to wake up yesterdaymorning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.