Wednesday, December 20, 2006

If Heaven Was a Brown Paper Bag

The girl that I'm seeing calls me at two in the morning (I think you're supposed to write numbers up to 'ten' in letter form). We talk nonsense. I'm not sure if she's checking up on me or if she has something to say. Either way, I'm glad to hear her voice after the night I've had. This feels like a crutch. Or as Leonard Cohen puts it, "looks like freedom but it feels like death, it's something in between I guess." I guess it could be worse.

She says, "I'm sorry." I ask, "what for?" She says, "Nothing; I was trying to be nice." This reminds me of Snatch.
Turkish: I'm sorry Mickey
Mickey: Did ya do it? Then why are ya sorry?

Why do we apologize for things we never expect to take the blame for? Like at funerals. Did ya do it? Then why are you sorry? There needs to be a new form of condolence. Something like "I empathize with the fact that your father felt he was no longer a contributing member of society and made a point to emphasize that idea all over your parents' bedroom wall." Or, "It's truly a shame that your grandmother survived concentration camps and cancer but not the flight of stairs leading up to the second floor of your house." It just feels like apologizing for something you're not responsible for is a bit patronizing.

Her: What's the point of drinking if you experience the moment but have no recollection of it?
Me: It's the not recollecting. That's the point.

So much for being serious.

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