This is the third straight night I have had dinner in the house; the second night this week that I have not had a drink. Must be some kind of career high for me.
And dear reader, I hope you do not mind that this is the second such page where I just ramble and rant and type away without either blinking or thinking: this is an experiment, you see--an experiment for myself so that I may see one day how I write when I write in the way that everybody else writes; whether I also sound as bad or worse; whether I may one day find humor in my words or hate myself more than I already do; whether I can be honest to myself or remain a hypocrite like everybody else. But why postpone such knowing and judging to a future time, a time when this experiment shall be assessed?--because I do not read what I write; I get sick of it--like the way a chef does not eat what he prepared.
I give you a hint, dear reader, as how to read me in this naked way: read it aloud, read it proud--aloud like a madman singing to himself in his dark solitary cell, proud as a man who is about to die with neither hope nor regret. Read it the way you read a Montaigne with his frankness, a Schopenhauer with all his bitterness and a Nietzsche with all his shouting and exclamation marks. Or, to make it easier: read it the way Dostoevsky's Notes from the Underground should be read--by listening attentively to the half-conscious and half-drunk man talking in the dark to himself and who says that unforgettable first line: "I am a sick man!" And if you missed it, that is why we have the same title--the difference being I am on the ground and the floor on which I write now is pale yellow laminated wood; and that sick man is six feet under the ground--go figure.
Well then, since all those unnecessary pleasantries have been done away with, I wish to talk about nothing tonight.