Written. No.1

22 05 2007

This is not a novel, by any stretch of the imagination.
This is your life story. I would like it very much for you to see it that way.
It begins with a letter.

It has been a week since we’ve started seeing each other and already I am in the mood to write love letters.

. . .

Today I found out what is wrong with the human race. Or maybe the life that lives around me. The problem is that all of who we are and what we do, rational and otherwise, is so similar. We are bound by the appeals and assaults of common institutions to our desires, the accepted drugs that they are. We do what we do because it is, out of a wide variety of potential options, the optimal choice for us. This optimal choice, the “best thing,” tends to be the same thing. Yes, I remember from third grade: “We are all different. Everybody is special.” True. But we eschew that individuality in the light of simple pleasures. The post-modern housewife insists that she chooses this life, that she enjoys it. The businessman insists that his job is his personal pursuit. And if these things themselves do not bring us joy (as we will sometimes admit behind closed doors), then it is “for the greater good” in some respect. For family. For her. For him. For us. Again, what brings us joy tends to make us all similar in the aggregate.

I feel like I have been married for an interminable number of years.
I have cheated on my girlfriend a total of zero-and-onehalf times.
I spent all my money on trying to make her happy.
I spent all my money on trying to make us happy. She would like that sentence more.
I work all day in a chair bound to the tedium that I cannot escape.
I listen to all different kinds of music and don’t admit that I really do have like five or six favorite groups.
I enjoy reading about fame, fortune, and scandal.
I am pretty much anyone.


She was born.

She lived.
Being American,
she died.




One response

8 06 2007
the shadowpax

youve done it again. i really like that you open it with the idea that this is supposed to be a love letter. i think thats my favorite part…

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