How many cigarettes do I have to smoke before the nagging half-thought I'm sure is important and True becomes an important and True thought? (It took five cigarettes to articulate this question. “It is mostly a question of articulation” was a bonus that unbiddened because sometimes you can rearrange words you just used and voila! I'm pretty sure this effect constitutes the entirety of my internal life. And I'm okay with that, kinda.) Has anyone smart and famous (for being smart, ideally) written about the relationship between language and ideas? Because someone should really look into this if they have the time
And what's with the special inspiration feelings that “gifted” people take particularly seriously—do less gifted people get them too? And if so, how do they relieve themselves? There was this retarded kid in my middle school who ate his hands and what was left of his fingers unless they were sheathed in a pair of chunky gloves that were deeply offensive to my young but already ossifying aesthetic sensibilities. They should have been mittens, not institutional grade hockey gloves in off-beige. They should have not fallen off all the time. And they should not have left him with wet red rashes on both wrists. I never thought through a better design. But I have ideas, so if you know how to make things we should email. It seems fair to say that it wasn't the form and function of the gloves that bothered me because braces are an ugly medieval technology and I yearned for braces even though my teeth were straight. It seems fair to say that the hand-eater was just really conspicuous evidence that the world is cruel and our efforts to mitigate cruelty are usually token, often vain, and never sufficient. I laughed at the hand-eater more than once. Way more than once. Which...He wasn't trying to eat his hands. I mean, who knows. But lots of people bite their fingernails and I'm always finding your chewed-on pencils when I need a pen. I didn't laugh to fit in. I mean, I laughed to fit in. But also because I couldn't help it. I laughed because he made funny noises, had awful motor sk**s, and ate his hands. Like all he wanted to do ever in life was eat his hands. His face was also pretty funny looking, which didn't help, or did. But it wasn't funny looking in the popular retard styles: he had a regular person's funny face and just happened to be retarded. I guess it's true what they say, "you can't judge a book by it's cover." I actually knew that expression then and understood its truth. Plus other expressions like that one that were also true unless you were a dick about it. I was often a dick about it
I digress
I laughed at the retarded own-hand-cannibal and I felt bad. But that was a pretty small guilt. The big guilt, remember, is that we are all complicit. I was basically a happy kid. Until my mother k**ed herself
She didn't. But other things have happened. There is a lot going on in my life and in other peoples' lives and in the lives of things that aren't even alive (like a rock, for example, or a pebble, for another example). I have a really good sense of this, which is to say that I'm very aware that a lot is going on. Moreover, I'm pretty sure that I am aware of the going on and goings on in a special and important way. It's a heavy thing, but it makes me feel light. And for this reason, and the above stated points. In conclusion, I urge you to accept my thesis