Today during a class break I went to a bookstore. Mainly I was just looking for some time to kill; mostly I just wanted to be somewhere else but the workplace for a little while.
But while I was walking the shelves looking for things on my list and yet at the same time not really looking for anything at all, I came to a sudden, sobering realization:
David Sedaris is a dipshit.
I've spent far too much time thinking about what makes his memories so damn valid and meaningful. I've spent far too many moments in my life wondering what people see in his writing. I've spent far too much energy trying to suppress homicidal thoughts towards coworkers I've had over the past 5 years who just couldn't wait to hear him speak on NPR.
So in a fit of righteous vengence, I sought out and found the first book I could with Jerry Stahl's name on the spine so that I could read it in the little cafe on the other side of the store in plain view of anyone who might be thumbing through the pages of a Bridget Jones novel.
Amidst the puppy calendars and the martini-glass-on-the-cover blankbooks, I was reading heroin addiction and desperation sex. Before long I found myself looking through the shelves for Susie Bright, Alison Tyler, and Hunter S.
It didn't matter that I had most of these same books at home, or that no one at all found indignation in my actions. It was about staking a claim to myself. About planting my own flag into the ugly Borders carpet, making sure anyone bored enough to look my way would have to know that I belong there too.
...This is what I did today.
More and more it's where I'm at lately. Picking and picking on this scab on my arm, trying to figure out where I fit anymore. Looking for a place to stand out, feeling somehow isolated in my inability to somehow exist and yet single myself apart from crowds of people my own age.
Shining in the dark, singing in the car. Needing ...connection.
Falling Down.
But while I was walking the shelves looking for things on my list and yet at the same time not really looking for anything at all, I came to a sudden, sobering realization:
David Sedaris is a dipshit.
I've spent far too much time thinking about what makes his memories so damn valid and meaningful. I've spent far too many moments in my life wondering what people see in his writing. I've spent far too much energy trying to suppress homicidal thoughts towards coworkers I've had over the past 5 years who just couldn't wait to hear him speak on NPR.
So in a fit of righteous vengence, I sought out and found the first book I could with Jerry Stahl's name on the spine so that I could read it in the little cafe on the other side of the store in plain view of anyone who might be thumbing through the pages of a Bridget Jones novel.
Amidst the puppy calendars and the martini-glass-on-the-cover blankbooks, I was reading heroin addiction and desperation sex. Before long I found myself looking through the shelves for Susie Bright, Alison Tyler, and Hunter S.
It didn't matter that I had most of these same books at home, or that no one at all found indignation in my actions. It was about staking a claim to myself. About planting my own flag into the ugly Borders carpet, making sure anyone bored enough to look my way would have to know that I belong there too.
...This is what I did today.
More and more it's where I'm at lately. Picking and picking on this scab on my arm, trying to figure out where I fit anymore. Looking for a place to stand out, feeling somehow isolated in my inability to somehow exist and yet single myself apart from crowds of people my own age.
Shining in the dark, singing in the car. Needing ...connection.
Falling Down.
[Listening to: The Cure, "Let's Go to Bed"]
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