Or rather, I feel like I'm doing my memory of this forum a favor.
I've always been over-verbose, under-limited and overall difficult to shut up. Friends, acquaintances and even lovers have mentioned my propensity for verbiage.
You might think that for a long time, that was outlet here. You'd be wrong.
I've always been like that, since I can remember - which, to be entirely honest, is perhaps a decade. My earliest memory stretches two, but there wasn't a whole lot of the 90s that I cared to remember. I live my life as a decade-nt subject. The oughts and I are two, unless they agree to assimilate. I'll buy an iPod eventually, I promise.
There have been drunken zuihitsus in the past, and there may be in the future - but the effort seems to have gone out of spontaneous thread-making. It almost makes it not worth it, in a way. I could corner and kill a racoon, take gruesome pictures of my inattention to life and get more attention than coming up with an original thought.
Scary scary media, I'd rather smoke a joint in the desert with departed moderators.
It's not my fault, I promise you. I went to get a library card the other day to prove it. I am a victim, and we are all of us victims. I don't hold a monopoly on the category.
I walked down from my place. It's updown a hill and across a bridge, the very definition of a hero's journey. I imagined conversations I would have and tomes I would scrutinize on the way down.
A third grade child, reading some book: The cover is blurred, battered. I am waiting nearby, too cool for kids. I recognize the title and laugh, she asks me about it. I admit that when I was her age I was reading the Chronicles of Narnia and learning English. She doesn't laugh; she's nine years old and I've just ruined the library for her.
Walking in stops my bizarre story - a man in his fifties confides in me. He watches two movies every night, without fail. He used to watch six a day but then I stopped listening because that's ridiculous and I refuse to believe it. He moves away disappointed and flicks the DVD case to Dragon Tiger Gate at me. It's true, it might be too violent to watch alone.
I show my passport and my rental lease. I've never shown a rental lease before, certainly not photocopied, and I have no idea that the public library has no authority to take it from me. The woman at the counter looks at me three times writing down my last name. Either I have the worst last name in the world or she's attracted to me. I sweat quietly and try not to spot the difference. She takes the photocopy and I let her.
A crazy thought. I hear women like men who read. It must explain why I lie in a different bed night after night - drunk and drugged, oversexed and insensate, until the touch of dawn or noon creeps across the night. Forget that it's pure imagination and self-deception. I meet her eyes - someone's eyes - and they spell letters and digits. My postal code. Yes, I do have it - I think.
It turns out I really do. I always sleep at home.
She hands me my card - fourteen digits - and I stop thinking about us having sex. She's older than my mother and I feel guilty. Then I feel ashamed of that reaction. I take my card and smile as best I can - I've never been photogenic. She laughs me out and I remember that I don't own the world.
I walk home uphill. My canvas shoes hug wet leaves and leach in the cold.