by Мэтью Квик Q
115
Weird what we remember and what we don’t.
116
It was strange how I wanted her to be both a sexy Bacall-type figure and I also wanted her to be a kid at the same time, because those states are pretty much opposites, so she couldn’t be both simultaneously.
117
Why is it that people only like it when you ask questions that they have answered a million times and hate you for stumping them? I love questions that stump me. I really enjoy thinking about possible answers to those types of questions for days and days. Does anyone else like to ponder anymore, or am I just a total freak?
118
Religious pun?
119
I looked up the origin of that “reaching the end of my rope” expression. The Internet told me that people used to say “at the end of my tether.” And tether referred to the leashes of horses or dogs. So I guess the phrase is supposed to evoke the image of a dog running for a squirrel or something and then suddenly being jerked back by the rope tied around its neck. It’s reached the end. It can’t go any farther. So I guess I’m beyond Linda’s reach now. Her tether is too short. Like she’s told me over and over again. I wonder what the hell she’s tethered to? NYC? Fashion? Jean-Luc? Take your pick. Lauren is tethered to religion.
120
I know it’s weird to crush on homely and old-ladyish, but mostly I just like the fact that Lauren looks nothing like the girls in my school. She looks one-of-a-kind pretty. She also looks like she needs to be rescued. Like she’s helpless on her own. So pathetic. Maybe the only person more pathetic than me.
121
I read on the Internet that the US military employs euphemism to make it easier to kill people. Military men and women shoot “targets,” not people, and blow up “targets,” not buildings full of women and children. So I employ that little bit of wisdom here. I will shoot a “target” and not a former friend/current classmate. You might think using euphemism is dumb, but you’d be surprised how much it helps to calm the nerves and ease the conscience. It really works.
122
For completely different reasons.
123
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player. That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot—full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” That’s William Shakespeare on the type of nothing I DON’T want. I gleaned that little nugget of anti-life-affirming wisdom from last year’s English class, when I had to memorize Macbeth’s soliloquy. Public school can be a real shot of lithium, let me tell you. It’s crazy the pessimistic shit we’re made to memorize in school and then carry around in our skulls for the rest of our lives.
124
Maybe a better word is oblivious. She was mentally absent in a way that might be perceived as enlightened or transcendent maybe to the untrained eye, but really she had this disguised sham blind-eye head-in-the-clouds type of defense mechanism at work, which maybe fostered Asher’s sense of entitlement and general disregard for the emotional well-being of others—even his best friend at the time. Like one time we were in a T.G.I. Fridays–type restaurant and Asher kept pouring his soda into the huge clay pot of a palm tree close to our table and then raising his glass in the air and demanding endless refills from the waitress, yelling, “More soda!” across the joint. And even though Mrs. Beal must have seen him pouring the soda into the palm tree pot—everyone in the restaurant did, I know because people were shaking their heads by the end of our meal—Asher’s mom didn’t tell him to knock it off or even acknowledge what he was doing in any way at all. She just let him abuse the waitress, who was young and too busy (and maybe too dumb) to argue or do anything but bring Asher endless Cokes. He seemed to delight in abusing the waitress. He smiled and smiled like a boy king, and I hated him on that day even more than I usually hated him back then in junior high. When he turned evil, he really turned evil. It was like something inside him broke and could never be repaired again. He never used to be like that when we were in elementary school, before what happened began and changed everything.
125
Other than what I’ve heard on elevators.
126
It’s funny how much I simultaneously like and hate the fact that Mrs. Beal sings, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.
127
Which just may mute her singing forever.
128
This might sound weird, but watching Mrs. Beal sing reminds me of the Dickens Christmas Carol display they put up in the city every December. You walk through Victorian England peeping through the windows of miniature houses on fake cobblestone streets lit with gas lamps—and I’m pretty sure the little wooden people sing at some point—as you follow around the three ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future through the life of the miserly miserable Scrooge until he has his change of heart and it’s all Merry Christmas and huge-ass turkeys and God bless us every one. My dad took me to Dickens Village once when I was in junior high and therefore too old for such a kid-ish father-son event. He was too high to notice that all the other sons and daughters there were less than four feet tall. He was also too high to notice that he was kind of staggering bleary-eyed and everyone was staring at him. Ironically, my dad was a big fan of Christmas. It always got the bastard feeling sentimental, which forced him to do even more drugs and drink—two of his favorite activities.
129
Why is it that great guys almost always let you down just as soon as you start to believe in them? Is that a rule of the universe or something? WTF?
130
The trigger reminds me of a frozen snake’s tongue.
131
This is what used to happen when I was alone with Asher in his bedroom too—I’d just sort of detach and float above as what happened happened. And for a while that was enough to protect me from feeling too bad. It was like what was happening was happening to someone else, while I floated safely with my back against the ceiling and my eyes closed.
132
The news world will make me instantly famous for sure, and what is fame if it isn’t power and popularity?
133
I remember that happening suddenly. I do. It’s a real memory. Where did it come from?
134
Mostly because I’d be too afraid of what people would say about me if they deduced just who it was that took the photo and then, therefore, would know I was watching Asher through his bedroom window. “Why?” they’d ask me. Explaining the reason to übermorons would be worse than death any day. And Asher would definitely incriminate me if that picture ever got out. He’d drag me down with him for sure. Offer me up to the übermorons like a sacrifice. They’d believe whatever he said too, because he’s more like them than I am.
135
It makes me think about how Hamlet had the chance to kill Claudius while he was praying, but didn’t since Claudius had just made peace with god, asked for god’s forgiveness, and therefore was eligible for entrance into heaven, as Lauren will tell you. So Hamlet waited for a time when Claudius was sinning. Would Hamlet have killed Claudius if he had found him jerking off like Asher? For some reason, I don’t think so, which makes me feel better. Who could kill someone while they were jerking off? It seems impossible. I bet Hamlet would have laughed if he found his father’s murderer rubbing one out. How could you not laugh?
136
And given what public school teachers are paid, this is really saying something.
137
It sounds so weird to be saying the word kill to my Holocaust teacher—admitting that I actually attempted to kill a classmate. Allowing the words to exist in the two or so feet between Herr Silverman and me—it feels surreal. It makes me realize how crazy I was earlier—how crazy I’ve been. I’m simultaneously freaked out and relieved. Fucked but freed, if that makes any sense at all. Reminds me of what Herr Silverman says about doubling in his Holocaust class.
138
It’s funny because we never used Bogart hats before yesterday, but somehow I understand that his putting the hat on is symbolic—a sign that we are about to talk in code. Walt and I have something going on that’s hard to explain. We understand each other. We just do. And I love that so much. Good-guy pheromones.
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Document creation date: 20.10.2013
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