Several years ago, way back when I was in college for the first time, a class of mine went to participate in a round table discussion with David Foster Wallace. He was spending some time on campus terrorizing young writers with his particular brand of arrogance and whatever else. I know he’s dead, but even to this day I can’t separate him from that experience, when I found him to be such an assholey asshole. Sometimes writers take themselves far too seriously. This was, after spending …