Sunday, December 11, 2005

You should have done something. You should have tried to stop me.

  • I did not allow myself to go to bed.

  • And why, pray tell, did you do that?

  • I believe it had, in theory at least, something to do with a spavined horse.

  • Aha!  That is clearly an act which I cannot, with clear conscience, allow.  You must cease and desist at once.  At once, I say!

  • I am afraid that I can do no such thing.  You, sir, are a foulmouthed man of low station and questionable birth.  It would not surprise me to find that not only was your father French, but also that at least three of your close maternal relatives were of Gallic descent.  Good Lord, man, you fairly reek of it.

  • I hate you.

  • It is a sign of one of the greatest flaws of your people that you would feel the need to do so.  I am at once both ashamed of and sympathetic for you.  If you were a homeless man I would surely toss a penny in your cup.

  • This conversation has idled too long in the fancy of others.  I will no longer let you shame me in public.  Good day, sir.

  • Good day.  And have a pleasant tomorrow.

  • Right back at you, Captain.

It’s getting worse, isn’t it?  Well, it is to be expected.  You left me all alone without any restraining influences.  It is only logical that I would have fallen deeper within myself.  I cannot and will not apologize for my behavior.

My estimation and understanding of everyone I know is both completely wrong and exactingly correct.  I don’t know which one is more important.

Has anyone actually been plotting the course of my descent?  It would be nice to know if someone cared.  Or at least had paid attention.  I mean, it didn’t start out like this.  Posts used to make sense.  For the most part.  There was a central theme, a coherence.  Though I would have to say, I have never much cared for coherence or overarching narratives.  They are such a stumbling block to creativity.  And so contrived.  At least from my perspective.  So was it inevitable that my creative urges would bring me to this point?  To this watershed moment of crystal clear realization?  No.  That is bullshit.  Like the rest.

It strikes me at times like these that I could be wrong about everything.  And I don’t know if it would matter; if it would even make the slightest difference.

“Oh, well.  What the hell.”
- McWatt, the pilot


Anonymous said...

you terrify and depress me, but I think that's part of what makes you a good writer.

Anonymous said...

Also, you're poor, oppressed and gay, which according to Orange County makes you a good writer.

Anonymous said...

i suggest setting a goal for once in your life.
Find a job back east.
Close to friends.
Close to college.
And all shall be merrily steeped in glorious alcohol and revelry.

stagnacy is no man's friend.