L'esprit de l'escalier

It's all about the timing.

Location: Memphis, Tennessee, United States

I'd rather be somewhere else most of the time and I'm a huge practitioner of staircase wit.


Grass before sex makes Diane Keaton happy

Sure, I like to read blogs that are funny. I like to laugh and joke and generally cut-up. But something always makes me a little sad about laughing at other people's lives, who I do not know, who do not know me, whose lives do not resemble my own. Am I trying to live vicariously through someone else's blogworld, someone who's not as sad as I am? Perhaps, but for the most part, I don't consider myself really all that sad, just more honest about life.

There's a scene in "Annie Hall" where Woody Allen was making an excuse for himself not being the kind of guy who's all easy-going and laid back. He said something to the effect that he can't be happy, knowing there is always someone else, somewhere else, who's suffering. He doesn't have to know those people, or know why they're sad, just knowing they exist makes him a little less happy. That's how I feel. When I feel. For the most part, I'm dead inside and pretend to be happy as a clam. A lark? Whichever is more awkwardly smiley.

Why is that? I wish I knew.

I also wish I knew what my point was when I started this fucking post? I HATE when this happens.


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