2004-10-27 - 4:07 p.m.

I'm sick of trying to be clever. Man, so many people fall into the "clever" trap. It's pretty ingenious, really. You think everything is just going to be great but the trap is baited with a false promise and the second you bite into it, instead of getting the sensation of a York Peppermint Patty you get the feeling that the sausage with peppers and onions you ate outside the ball park was made with pork that was a little too old.

The damn thing seems to ooze into your mouth exactly the way unspoiled meat shouldn't. You don't think there are any worms or other parasites, but the clenching in your stomach makes you think that you should give up speculating about the nature of the biological entities that are capable of finding there way into your digestive tract.

Things could be worse. You could be eating out of the dumpster one day - and who doesn't? - only to discover that the guy you've been running from has finally discovered your weakness. And what is that weakness? Is there some gap in your self-knowledge? Is there some missing piece in your quest to understand who you are? All you know is that he is snickering and scribbling rapidly in his little notebook.

And you hate that notebook. You hate it so much. You dream about getting your hands on it. It haunts you like Kirk haunts Kahn. A never ending struggle. And when you, like Montresor, finally wall this little Fortunato up in the catacombs, will you panic? After all, to destroy what you hate - a consuming, all encompassing, overpowering hate - is that not to destroy yourself?

You laugh at this pretension to philosophy because you know the truth. You can't kill what you hate. You can try but it always comes back.


Reading I'm about to start The Great Gatsby. Don't laugh.
Wishing I could spend my days writing
Plotting To repay the thousand injuries of Fortunato
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