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Sep. 5th, 2001

So.

I'm depressed.
heh.
this could be all the recurrent thoughts of Tom.
This could be all the recurrent thoughts of mister questions and the whole Big Issue with that.
This could be the strange dark side effects of fear and nervousness involved with the visit I'll be getting. How will it go. Have we raised the bar too high? Am I going to end up another puddle of broken pieces and discontent? Am I going to be the bitch again?
I feel the running shoes coming on.
I feel myself doing warm up stretches for the running away.
And I feel myself getting out the nails and the hammer.
feet? who fucking needs them? On the other hand, they look like some pretty damned good anchors.
Maybe it's just pms, huh?
Or maybe I'm just built to be sad. That's always a possibility. I'm a somber person to so many people. So many people think I'm just this quiet thing who keeps her thoughts to herself and has a sad face. And in a way, they're right. But who really gives a fuck, ya know? Who cares about these things? If I were reading this in someone else's journal I'd hardly be touched. It would float right past.
I read this today.
I enjoyed it a lot.
What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows. They are famous in their deaths. This will be my memorial to them. I give you all these things, I tell you about his legs and her wigs- I do so later in this section- and relate my wondering if I should be having sex with my girlfriend in front of their closet the night of my father's service, but after all that, what, in the end, have I given you? It seems like you know something, but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don't care- how could I care? I tell you how many people I have slept with (thirty-two), or how my parents left this world, and what have I really given you? Nothing. I can tell you the names of my friends, their phone numbers-
Marny Requa: 415-431-2435
K.C. Fuller: 415-922-7893
Kirsten Steward: 415-614-1976
but what do you have? You have nothing. They all granted permission, Why is that? Because you have nothing, you have some phone numbers. It seems precious for one, two seconds. You have what I can afford to give. You are a panhandler, begging for anything, and I am the man walking briskly by, tossing a quarter or so into your paper cup. I can afford to give you this. This does not break me. I give you virtually everything I have. I give you all of the best things I have, and while these things are things that I like, memories that I treasure, good or bad, like the pictures of my family on my walls I can show them to you without diminishing them. I can afford to give you everything. We gasp at the wretches on afternoon shows who reveal their hideous secrets in front of millions of viewers, and yet... what have we taken from them, what have they given us? Nothing. We know that Janine had sex with her daughter's boyfriend, but...then what? We will die and we will have protected... what? Protected from all the world that, what, we do this or that, that our arms have made these movements and our mouths these sounds? Please. We feel that to reveal embarassing or private things, like, say masurbatory habits (for me, about once a day, usually in the shower), we have given someone something, that, like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul, we identify our secrets, our pasts and their blotches, with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself. But it's just the opposite, more is more is more- more bleeding, more giving. These things, details, sotries, whatever, are like the skin shed by snakes, who leave theirs for anyone to see. What does he care where it is, who sees it, this snake, and his skin? He leaves it where he molts. Hours, days or months later, we come across a snake's long-shed skin and we know something of the snake, we know that it's of this approximate girth and that approximate length, but we know very little else. Do we know where the snake is now? What the snake is thinking now? No. By now the snake could be wearing fur; the snake could be selling pencils in Hanoi. The skin is no longer his, he wore it because it grew from him, but then it dried and slipped off and he and everyone could look at it.


I like that.
That's from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers.

I have a blinking aim message on my toolbar. I'll go pay attention to that now.

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