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Tuesday, December 29, 2009


I don't have the luxury of thinking of, referring to, or narrating my life in the third person. Sure, I've wanted to, and even considered hiring James Earle Jones to do the job for me, but the truth is, I might be a little offended. Were I to be honest, the resulting scenario might sound something like this: The afternoon was hot as Cameron managed to deftly maneuver straight into a lamp-post. Still reeling from the ordeal, Cameron entered his apartment complex. Cameron had always been partial to quantum physics and any other theory asserting that time and space are equal. Unfortunately, Cameron was also under the false impression that matter and space are equal, and thus mistook empty space for a step, and ended up filing his teeth in a compulsive effort to break his fall.

All that is to say: I'm not a "smooth operator."

Yesterday a co-worker pointed out to me that I always flex my hand. I'm not sure what purpose this serves, but perhaps I'm in a mode of perpetual farewell, preparing in advance for everyone's departure and waving to them. A further scrutiny of my motives has led me to the bleak theory that this is my feeble attempt at dancing. Once, I entered a nightclub pervaded by a thundering beat and lots of blissfully bobbing people. I dislocated my hip in an effort to simultaneously dance and avoid all human contact. I think I left it in the V.I.P. room.

It's not the only instance of my dancing inability. At a Turkish cafe, I was jerked upright by the waiter and forced to join a chain of gleeful acrobats who had converged on the rug. I panicked and handed him an uneaten role lying on the table, which, as it turns out, was a better dancer than me.

No, the movements of my body, as well as the flights of fancy occupying the narrator in my skull remain defamatory.

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