60. I read the dictionary.
61. I subscribe to National Geographic, though I do not know why, really.
62. In my apartment are four computers. Only one presently works.
63. My bicycle chain needs oil, my bike seat needs to be replaced, and there's a huge hole in the middle finger of one of my gloves that must be sewn shut. The hole started in January.
64. I fantasize about the questions the interviewer will ask after my first book is published. Actually, it could be my third or even fifth book—fantasies are easy that way. I've imagined writing a good dozen or so books. Does this make me a fantasy writer?
65. I described this site to my family once as non-fiction writing, without the research. That's because you've always been lazy, my sister concluded. My brother and sister visited my site once, and went no further than
here, and
here. They don't want to know.
66. I usually think everything is my fault.
67. Playing with a Ouija board with my aunt once, I asked it when my father would die. At that time he was in his mid-fifties. The board said 63. He did.
68. My room is a diorama in the museum of clutter.
69. ..is not one of my favorite positions. Spooning is.
70. There is a terrifying place I should go, emotionally, but I don't. I don't know anybody who makes such excursions into the emotional abyss (maybe I'm avoiding anyone who might challenge me), and at the mouth of that pit are all sorts of diversions encouraging me to go elsewhere. I comply.
71. I have been convinced, at least three seperate times, that my death was imminent. I was wrong.
72. I think there should be bare breasts in the Department of Justice, instead of naked ambition.
73. I want to live—and I mean live for real, not like I do watching life, but like I have never done before, living life—at least once before I die. (Refer to the abyss in #70).
74. I sleep in my underwear. Sometimes I even wear a cap.
75. I brush my teeth daily, I seldom floss, I use a tongue scraper. And Listerine.
76. Most of my clothes are black. Everything I've bought in the last year is.
77. My right ear is pierced. I usually do not wear anything in it.
78. Basically I am a taker. When I give, it is only because, for that moment, I figure I can afford it (spiritually, emotionally, etc.). But I believe that on balance I am always in the red. I am waiting for all that was ever stolen to be given back.
79. I admitted a guy I knew from high school to the detox where I work. When he realized who I was, he expressed—through a light mist of booze—the sympathy he used to feel for me when other guys would steal my lunch money.
80. I'm surprised I did not grow up to be the Unabomber.