if it’s your birthday today, Happy Birthday!

“Every time I share with you something, a little piece of me dies.”

It’s not really from anywhere, so far as I know, but when in quotation marks it’s often thought that there’s something more there. I mean, it could be from Buddenbrooks or something (e.g., Death in Venice), but it’s just a bunch of words put together, much like other words, up and out, for others’ consumption, for one’s own personal reasons, including probable, possible gain.

The point of this, though, is simply to put something, or do something, as it’s been a while since I’ve made a record of any kind of thought, for anyone (i.e., other than myself, explicitly). But it’s hard to go on like this, it really is. Oftentimes, the idea of just any thing and its imperfection and non-essentiality and immediate self-interestedness make it difficult to do anything but wonder why others do what they do. (Sitting in a park can do wonders for the apparent merits of sitting in a park.)

For instance, here’s a first draft of an untested joke, along with attendant note to self:

Oh, for fuck’s sake make yourselves laugh. [Opener?]

And, why not:

Christmas came a little bit early all over my face this year but I was like, “that’s ok, it’s Christmas!”

But is the world now a better place? Whose interests have been served? And, if, in certain domains, there’s no such thing as perfection, then how can there be imperfection? And yet it does seem undeniable that there exists pretty damn fucking terrible.

It just seems to be some movement—*there*, self-replicating—of which each moment is just a manifestation of the whole, no? Each subsequent roommate as necessary as the preceding one; one’s being age two-ness no more essential than one’s being age ten-ness than etc.; etc. I’m tired of editing, obviously, maybe, but it would just come out as something. It’s just an exercise—an exercise. No one’s shoving anything in anyone’s face here to the point at which the person in whose face anything’s being shoved can’t prevent further shoving.

This is more relevant than silence? Less?

I think that if women were not at all selective about whomever they slept with, there would be no culture. (This is stated.)

(This is an excuse.)