Saturday, February 24, 2007
Inches Become Miles
So I'm a huge downer on this Saturday night. I went out both Thursday and Friday nights, so I planned to stay in anyway, and I took the garbage weather as a sign that I was right. As I was wasting time scrolling through Facebook, I realized how easy it is for us to change, but how hard it is to see that change. I looked at all of my old high school friends and even some friends that I met in college and was just mystified how people that I used to be inseparable from could have fallen off of my planet. I primarily blame my brain for making me think about this now. I've been a little melancholy lately anyway, so it's trying to mount evidence for its case. My life is pretty typically a struggle between my brain and myself. To show it who's boss, I'll think I'll marinade it in alcohol and call as many of those old friends as I still have numbers for.
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4 comments:
This entry reminds me of a line from a book called Lucy by Jamaica Kincaid.
"Everything remains the same and yet nothing is the same."
You should call up those old friends. You really should. It will make you feel better.
The author never said why the parrot could only count up to 15. 15 is a weird number to stop counting at. If it were Spanish, I could see why the parrot would have trouble shifting from "quince" or whatever to "deizisies". But this is fucking America. Our counting system is easy. It is so easy that even I, boy of IQ 78, can count to at least 523.
I also wonder why it is only you, me, and Chelsea that make comments. It is sort of a bummer to find out day after day that no one else comments. We should form some kind of clan. The Tres Clan, or something Spanish. Espanol es buen.
Adios.
I like that you tell what sort of happens in your life. Perhaps it will reveal something of great importance. Perhaps it is of greater significance than writing some crap about what you have read or how your writing is going. It is much more interesting to hear you say something like "an old man tried to beat me down with his cane in the grocery store because I took the last bag of Doritos Black Pepper Jack" than "today I wrote seven sentences of forced drivel."
What of this band called "Teddybear"? I have not heard of them. Are they soft and cuddly?
Like I said in the Introduction post, I have a problem with doing what I'm told. I know this is supposed to be a blog about writing, but if I get kicked in the nuts by a midget at the dry cleaners, that's probably going to show up in my writing somewhere, so I might as well just write about it on here.
Also, this is really the only captive audience I can find because the police said I can't tie people down anymore even if I only want to tell them about my day.
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