Or in this case, question mark. One of my neurotic habits is paying attention to the most inane objects there are. I would read the same billboard copy even if I have passed the dang thing gazillion times and have memorized its contents to within every bleeding inch of my sturdy skull. I would tell people there were thirty two lamp posts from the place where I live to the nearest Mini Stop. When I say this they would shoot me a look of alarm — an expression between alerting a mental institution, utter disbelief, traces of panic, or, on rare episodes, a genuine amusement for this oddball knack for absurdity. I would read the same book four times in the span of three months if it’s mildly interesting and read anything from cover to cover including doctors’ prescriptions which, I would like to state here to be a new branch in hieroglyphics. I would read the same book a minimum of ten times if it strikes or stirs something in me and I would promote it to friends like a requirement for when they unexpectedly kick the bucket and will be interrogated as to its content as a password to eternal communion with virgins, martyrs, saints and seraphs. I would write about boring things, this entry for instance, and waste unsuspecting people’s precious time in enduring this mindless drivel in the hope of discovering something sensible within one herniating paragraph that seems to be desperately seeking for coherence, logic, purpose or meaning. The sad thing is there is none of the above and as hapless sucker you are reading this final sentence with downright disgust saying ‘what the hell was that all about’ but it’s already too late.
May 14, 2009
Who said titles can’t have periods?