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Sunday, October 8, 2017

Why You Feel the Way You Do

You go out in the morning for coffee and when you come back home you’re twenty-five years older than when you left. No one can explain this common phenomenon to your satisfaction. 

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When you walk into an empty room tell me that the furniture doesn’t look smug, as if it had been talking about you while you were out of earshot, and none too kindly either. Go ahead. Get up and walk into another room right now and see for yourself, if you haven't already noticed. I'll wait. I've got nothing better to do.

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I captured this sentence and watched it beat its Technicolor wings against the glass of an old mayonnaise jar until it was ragged and colorless and meant nothing anymore. Now I give it to you. You can give it to someone else if you like. I don’t give a damn what you do with it. 

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Since the beginning of time, old women have been sitting on porches painfully knitting with the knobby, arthritic fingers of has-been prizefighters a blanket large enough to smother the whole earth but they never quite finish and that is why you and everyone you meet look a little out of breath, a little blue. 

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Do you remember that cold gray morning standing in front of the firing squad? How they took aim and fired shot after shot, always wide of the mark, until, disgusted, you took up an extra rifle and shot yourself through the heart to show them how it was done?  Well, I do. I was there, standing blindfolded, right beside you. And, man, you were fucking magnificent.

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