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Monday, February 9, 1998
By Paul Ford
Lazy boy weepy boy whiny boy.
I do not want to write a journal essay today.
I have absolutely no desire to entertain.
I want a companion to while away my hours, to bother me about the dishes in the sink. Currently, my most significant companion is the Subway Diary.
Perhaps I should have a puppy.
This diary is a goddamned noose around my neck.
Some poor terrier, low-haunched.
I like dogs.
I distrust people who don't like dogs. Those people are deviant.
(Have you ever considered the little tests we create to approve of one other? The movies a person should like, favorite colors, whether they enjoy a certain animal? I like dogs and cats, and am kind to both. But most, I like a leaping, bounding, affectionate, thoroughly stupid dog.)
Sometimes I still think people of means should be locked inside their spheres of influence and roasted to death.
You can tell me it's jealousy, but I'll only hate you more.
Around this time, I discoved classic rock.
I also discoved I could cover my arms with rubbing alcohol and set them on fire.
It did not hurt if I waved my arms fast enough.
The air filled with the acrid reek of singed hair.
I entertained my peers by proving my flammability.
I cupped fire in my palm.
I always was an entertainer.