Is it asking me a question?
Do I have any answers for anyone?
I feel again like my life is fragmentary—a million threads not neatly woven into cloth. I keep trying to unify this damn thing, but it doesn’t work. Not so far. There are always things pulling me in multiple directions, and people realizing that they want a piece of me long after they thought they didn’t.
I care about so many people. Why don’t they ever care about me in convenient ways? When I care about them, am I caring about them in inconvenient ways?
I have so many memories of so many years and so many people it’s already overwhelming, it makes me want to turn off, shut down. What will it feel like when I’m twice as old as I am now?
I took some of the most beautiful photos I’ve ever taken today.
I’m tired of opportunity and freedom. Will someone please fucking impose some tyranny on me, finally, once and for all?
I need to redesign this piece of real estate to sell myself better.
I don’t know why I care to sell myself.
Half the time, no questions.
Pedestrian aside: first in International House Chicago and now here, the strangest moments I encounter are when I walk into the bathroom (shared for entire floor) and there’s someone in a stall talking loudly on a cell phone.
“Touché,” this one says, “you got me there. I don’t know how much she paid, but I’m sure it’s more than I would be willing to pay.”
Amidst other noxious noises, in a public bathroom.