notes to self
The other day I was reading a book when I found this:
Who was the schizophrenic who had slipped this bit of word salad into my book I wondered. At which point I realized that it was written in my own handwriting. And obviously, my first thought was who had taken the time to master my handwriting just so they could slip these unintelligible scribblings into my book? Then my second thought was does this have something to do with national security? Did Obama send a spy to my apartment to tell me that this is what my grocery list should look like? And why don’t I shop for justice more often? Or for that matter make deep and meaningful observations about San Franciscans. This particular deep and meaningful observation about San Franciscans seemed to have been cut-off before the deep and meaningful part, and I wondered if that actually made it deeper and more meaningful. Kind of like a choose your own adventure book. How I hated those as a child. You can’t call yourself an author if you make the reader do the writing for you. Might as well call it a “Write your own book” book. Which kind of reminded me of when I went to these fondue restaurants where they make you boil your own little pieces of meat over a pot of water in the center of the table. The popularity of these restaurants was inconceivable to me since if I had wanted to boil my own meat I would have stayed home, in England, in the 1700s. I guess what I’m saying is don’t try to convince me to pay you to whitewash a fence by saying it’s fun. I’m on to you Tom Sawyers.