Like a shot of tequila in the morning
So what? So I've got a smile on.
It's just hiding the quiet superstitions in my head.
Don't believe me when I say I've died down.
I cannot compress enough 'gh's into one word to express the utterly confounding amalgam of everything consuming my thoughts these days.
I am truly quite foolish. Nothing new, I just like to remind myself every once in a while, so that maybe one of these times I will be motivated to make the wise decision.
Kathleen: So did you get a full scholarship to McGill?
I had not told her that I was going to McGill at all. It was logical enough that she would have been informed, but the question was somehow out of place, especially given the answer.
Moose: No, I did not.
Kathleen: Well, how much of a scholarship did they give you?
Moose: They haven't given me anything.
She looked down at me with indifferent surprise; I turned away and shifted further from my father, to whom I felt I should have been able to justify this answer, but could not. Then again, hadn't McGill's decision not to give me a scholarship been one of the reasons I chose it? Logically, that should indicate higher standards.
I waited, I wandered, I found acquaintances I had not spoken to in recent history, but they seemed to have little interest in catching up with me.
Peter: It takes a certain amount of effort to maintain a friendship, and for some people maybe it's just not worth it.
Fair enough. They had more pressing matters at hand - two of them did, at least. The third, perhaps, found our acquaintanceship obscure enough to begin with that even that could be cast asunder.
Keleher: Ah, hello, Moose, I'll be with you in a minute.
He was talking on the telephone to someone who had apparently lost theirs. He motioned for me to sit down.
Keleher: Yes, well, I don't see the phone on the desk or the couch anywhere... I can check the other room for you, if you think it might be in here... No, I'm sorry, I don't recall seeing your phone anywhere. Okay, well you do that.
He set down the phone and stood up to address me.
Keleher: Can you check between those seat cushions? This man who was just in here seems to have lost his cell phone - I'm going to check the other room, maybe it will be there.
Moose: Sure thing.
The cushions were fastened to the couch by an elastic band. Theft of seat cushions is not a concern that would cross my mind were I placed in charge of the office's interior design. He returned after a brief search, hands empty.
Keleher: Find it?
Moose: No, sorry.
Keleher: Well, that's all right, we'll just proceed with what you came for.
And I told him what I knew. What I knew was not much. But Officer Keleher's confidence assured me for the moment, at least. My confidence ebbs and flows erratically as sneakers in the dryer.
This stemmed from an incident at my house last Monday. A borderline criminal incident: no physical damage was done, but it's not the sort of thing I believe people should be able to do and get away with. And the orientation indicates that there was trespassing involved. Also, my seven-year old brother has been frightened to leave the house alone ever since, even though it wasn't targetting him. No, there isn't anyone with any reason to target him. I suppose I'm just different like that.
-----
It's not really Friday. That would be quite impossible, for Monday seems but a moment ago.
I'm falling further behind schedule. Largely as a result of augmenting apathy. Where will I stand, in the end? Must I choose a stance?
Is there hope left for me?
Kendra: You can't not believe in anything...
Moose: But I don't. There is nothing I believe in.
Kendra: That's horrible. Everyone has to believe in something.
Moose: Well, obviously that's not true, because I believe in nothing.
I am a cynic and a pessimist. My father is a skeptic and an optimist. We are entirely different people, I think - but that is as my father expects, for me to think such a thing. At my age, he was certain his parents were nothing like him, and yet at this point in his life he recognizes striking similarities. So my belief that I am nothing like my parents falls rather disappointingly into the pattern.
I am a 4, but I am a 9 when feeling especially cynical.
Four... that sounds about right. Well, accurate. I don't know about right.
It's just hiding the quiet superstitions in my head.
Don't believe me when I say I've died down.
I cannot compress enough 'gh's into one word to express the utterly confounding amalgam of everything consuming my thoughts these days.
I am truly quite foolish. Nothing new, I just like to remind myself every once in a while, so that maybe one of these times I will be motivated to make the wise decision.
Kathleen: So did you get a full scholarship to McGill?
I had not told her that I was going to McGill at all. It was logical enough that she would have been informed, but the question was somehow out of place, especially given the answer.
Moose: No, I did not.
Kathleen: Well, how much of a scholarship did they give you?
Moose: They haven't given me anything.
She looked down at me with indifferent surprise; I turned away and shifted further from my father, to whom I felt I should have been able to justify this answer, but could not. Then again, hadn't McGill's decision not to give me a scholarship been one of the reasons I chose it? Logically, that should indicate higher standards.
I waited, I wandered, I found acquaintances I had not spoken to in recent history, but they seemed to have little interest in catching up with me.
Peter: It takes a certain amount of effort to maintain a friendship, and for some people maybe it's just not worth it.
Fair enough. They had more pressing matters at hand - two of them did, at least. The third, perhaps, found our acquaintanceship obscure enough to begin with that even that could be cast asunder.
Keleher: Ah, hello, Moose, I'll be with you in a minute.
He was talking on the telephone to someone who had apparently lost theirs. He motioned for me to sit down.
Keleher: Yes, well, I don't see the phone on the desk or the couch anywhere... I can check the other room for you, if you think it might be in here... No, I'm sorry, I don't recall seeing your phone anywhere. Okay, well you do that.
He set down the phone and stood up to address me.
Keleher: Can you check between those seat cushions? This man who was just in here seems to have lost his cell phone - I'm going to check the other room, maybe it will be there.
Moose: Sure thing.
The cushions were fastened to the couch by an elastic band. Theft of seat cushions is not a concern that would cross my mind were I placed in charge of the office's interior design. He returned after a brief search, hands empty.
Keleher: Find it?
Moose: No, sorry.
Keleher: Well, that's all right, we'll just proceed with what you came for.
And I told him what I knew. What I knew was not much. But Officer Keleher's confidence assured me for the moment, at least. My confidence ebbs and flows erratically as sneakers in the dryer.
This stemmed from an incident at my house last Monday. A borderline criminal incident: no physical damage was done, but it's not the sort of thing I believe people should be able to do and get away with. And the orientation indicates that there was trespassing involved. Also, my seven-year old brother has been frightened to leave the house alone ever since, even though it wasn't targetting him. No, there isn't anyone with any reason to target him. I suppose I'm just different like that.
-----
It's not really Friday. That would be quite impossible, for Monday seems but a moment ago.
I'm falling further behind schedule. Largely as a result of augmenting apathy. Where will I stand, in the end? Must I choose a stance?
Is there hope left for me?
Kendra: You can't not believe in anything...
Moose: But I don't. There is nothing I believe in.
Kendra: That's horrible. Everyone has to believe in something.
Moose: Well, obviously that's not true, because I believe in nothing.
I am a cynic and a pessimist. My father is a skeptic and an optimist. We are entirely different people, I think - but that is as my father expects, for me to think such a thing. At my age, he was certain his parents were nothing like him, and yet at this point in his life he recognizes striking similarities. So my belief that I am nothing like my parents falls rather disappointingly into the pattern.
I am a 4, but I am a 9 when feeling especially cynical.
Four... that sounds about right. Well, accurate. I don't know about right.