2. The best policy is to constantly deflect their questions when (if ever) they ask you about borrowed book/DVD. If they really cared, they would wring your scraggly neck like a chicken until you handed it over. They never do.

3. My identity is a misrepresentation. I can scarcely tell the difference between the now-me, the me-that-was, and the me-that-turns-up-on-social-occasions-to-pull-women/men. Frankly, I think your insistence on the truth is in very poor taste.

4. My jackbootometer never went off, so there’s that.

4a. Why all these cloying and ingratiating platitudes? Its understood that we’re all narcissists who respond to online quizzes. Publish or be damned.

5. I can’t shake Elliot no matter how hard I try. She already gave birth to all my words, watched them grow up, and sent them to a fabulous university where they all impressed everyone.

7. Since I’m already telling you the secrets of my soul – Middlemarch.

8. The Female Eunuch. Self explanatory really.

9. No, my youth was an arid wasteland watered with other peoples fantasies. I had to shed it like a snake’s scaly epidermis.

10. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t suffer on an almost minute by minute basis. I’m trying to work on that.

11. Sheesh. As I don’t believe in luck the second half of your question is moot. As far as T-shirt stainage goes, I am quite particular about my clothes. I like to be seen as the sort of person who doesn’t mind lending them out, that is, the sort of person that is nonchalantly stylish enough for other people to want to borrow my clothes, but I suspect this is not the case. I am also preternaturally cautious about spilling body fluids. Some moron spilled olive oil on my favourite shirt on the tube and I stifled the urge to gauge her eyes out with my thumbs – her boyfriend was some sort of man-mammoth so I reconsidered. It still bugs me though.

12. Control freakery has meant that there have been only about two occasions in my life where I’ve been drunk. On neither of them did I feel the need to record my typing speed. I was too busy trying to ‘live in the moment’ and ‘let my hair down.’ Needless to say, my attempts at these puerile (more puking than mewling) states of being were an abysmal failure.

E. As I fall in love suddenly and without warning, and as it usually lasts only long enough for me to enjoy the effects of hopeless pining I would have to say, in the physical sense yes. Am I sure certain versions of myself don’t survive. Ye-nom. No-s.

As for the rest, my computer just crash dumped on my full and deliciously witty answers. There was a lengthy and hilarious anecdote in there about me forcing a group of English Language students to solve a murder mystery Jessica Fletcher-stylee as well as the key to my soul through the medium of poetry. The above was all I could remember.

Two years separated the acts of thievery. The first occurred some time in 2006; at a chain bookstore still very much in business, I lifted a copy of Rabbit, Run. Then, in the summer of 2008, while visiting a friend in Atlanta, I pilfered a copy of Of the Farm from a Borders. Neither time was it my specific intention to rob the still-living Mr. Updike of his due royalties; it just so happened that when I was taken by the mad whim to steal, it was something by John Updike I wanted. I haven’t stolen anything since, nor can I imagine that I would be moved to do so any time ever again.

Speaking of Updike, it just so happens that this morning, while book shopping on Amazon, I purchased a copy of the recently reissued Couples. It was either this or Rabbit, Run that was the first thing I read by the man either seven or eight years ago. (You see, I had previously read RR prior to stealing it. I also had previously read Of the Farm prior to stealing that one, as well. This has nothing to do with anything, but since I’m here I thought I’d share.)

1. No, I have never stolen a book. I have ALWAYS returned books I borrowed. And then I remember being told of the “new thing” of leaving a book, once you’ve read it, on a bus or just simply giving it away. So when I bought, and read Schapelle Corby’s experiences in the Bali prison, I remember mentioning it to my hairdresser & when she said she wanted to read it, I came back another day & gave it to her. Felt good!

3. No, it is not my intention. You’ve thought about the Qs, so I’ll think honestly about the As.
4. No; it was a fair ask.
4a. Yes you can publish my survey results, but just not on tonight’s national news – ta.

5. OMG, I’m going to look so culturally retarded, but I’m going to say I don’t have a favourite author & I’m not that well read. The last book I read was ‘The Importance of Now’ (I THINK that was it) – & I can’t remember the author though he rose up from “nowhere” with this best seller & I read it only months ago. I’m so bad at remembering authors, but artists – Tom Waites, David Bowie, Grace Jones, Billy Idol – easy to remember.

6. Don’t have one (yet)
7. Um, I don’t have one. Heh.

8. Now THAT, I do not do. When I buy or borrow a book, it’s because I want to read it. My sister (I have 3 so you’ll never know which one… although one did change her surname by deed poll so maybe I’ve only got two) – my sister has HEAPS of interesting looking books on her shelves & I remember when I introduced my new boyfriend of the time to her & he, very well read, went to her book shelves & starting asking what did she think of x book – she hadn’t read it – & what about x book – she hadn’t read it; and she ended up getting shitty at him. I remember feeling at the time, ‘Why so many interestingly titled books, unread?’

9. Fearing your next Q will be ‘did you have to look up the meaning of ‘shambolic”, I did so anyway. So now having defined shambolic – my answer to this Q is no, and my youth wasn’t that chaotic. It was a struggle beneath my manic depressive father & I used to wag school & sit under a tree in Wattle Park, Melbourne Australia, & write, & write & write.

10. OK, so I had to look up ‘neurotypical’ too. You’re not going to invite me to your next cocktail party, are you? Sigh. Well anyway, I’m not neurotypical and I SUFFERED FUCKING HARD, bad & intensely, living with my father ages 10-17, was suicidal, bulimic, depressed to the extreme, into adulthood, into marriage, broke free, discovered myself, and only recently have addressed my depression & found ways of management. So I don’t presently suffer, no.

11. No, I haven’t destroyed anything/one in a fit of rage. Um, are you guys fair dinkum with these Qs or are you teasing us the people, I am beginning to wonder around about now….

12. Sober is 95, never typed imbued with whisky.

E. Hee hee. So E is 13, hey? Are you scared of the no. 13? It’s now MY turn to ask YOU: Y do you have an ‘E’ for a 13??? I believe in life after love, but haven’t found it yet.

14. My mother suicided when I was 6 & I had no grandpa in the State of Australia I was living at the time, so HA!
17. No. It’s the age I left my Dad’s domain. And why r u messin’ with the numbers?
15.The thought of doing this does not appeal, but no, it aint OK if you’re living with someone else. Ich!
16. When watching a movie intended to horrify hormonal teenagers, you identify most with: (b)

Ĵ. J. Now we’re doing a J. You see, your numbers have now lost their VALUE because you’ve thrown in a J. Do you get that? The only way your numbers can get their value back, is if you add another number at the end, which the J will represent, to get it back into full sequence. Anyhow, I believe in an instinctive knowingness at first sight, with love to be realised between the two, or few.

18. Um, admit I was wrong.
19! I downed it with too many shots of vodka some time way back.
20. All the ones I HAD to in school, and spasmodically thereafter – sort of can’t count them.
21. It doesn’t worry me. It comforts me.
13. Uh, nope. And I see you’ve no superstitions about 13 after all.
22. Regularly, when they don’t give me money.

22a. Doing this freaking survey! (jeez, and to think I read all that).

XXIII. You would best describe yourself as – c) the female son of Zeus

YYIV. Eech. No.
XXV. Eech. No.
ZZVI. In your lounge room.
XXVII. Nope. All you need is balance.
28. Sorry, I don’t know who John Dewey is & I can’t be bothered looking him up.
29. There was no man.
Can this you do? – d) Charmykins is somewhat smaller than the doll with the eggshell dress.
xxx. night.
31. No!

32. Sorry. I’m getting tired & didn’t read this one through (you wanted me to be honest?)

32. &c.

33. Barely.

PHEW

2. If I stole a book it was from someone I am likely friends with. Come to think of it, I have a few books that I don’t exactly remember where they came from. I guess I stole some books. I’m pretty sure the one existentialism book I have was technically stolen.

3. Originally I read question #1 and skipped down to #3. #3 made me worry about whether or not I was about to tell the internet a lie. So, I may be overly worried about misrepresenting myself. Answer: No.

4. No, but things got serious real quick.

4a. Yes, but maybe first I should tell my friend about the book of hers I think I stole.

5. I’d probably strain from rolling my eyes at the question, then answer Haruki Murakami. And then I’d roll my eyes at my own answer.

6. Dr. Suess

7. When I was in middle school it was To Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons. But I kept telling people that and they hadn’t heard of (been required to read) it so it’s become A Day No Pigs Would Die.

8. There may have been an underlying reason I stole that existentialism book but that doesn’t make it okay does it?

9. bhahah no but reading that did bring back the taste. I was a big fan of the taste of a battery on my tongue

10. For a few years I thought I may have had Asperger’s. Then I realized that was a politically incorrect excuse for my avoidance of social situations and I bucked up and am now, for the most part, neurotypical.

11. I have broken many a CD just to see how far I could bend it before it broke. Never drew blood from it though.

12. When drinking whiskey I always opt to write pen to paper. Answer: N/A

E. There is only life after love. I don’t really believe that, I just always wanted to share that with Cher.

14. I remember my great grandmother doing this, feeding me as many Sno Caps from her pockets she could sneak in until mom got home.

17. It’s alright. Much better than 43. makes me shudder just to type it

15. No way! Butter from a Country Crock tub though…

16. b. but I wish it was c.

Ĵ. Only with food.

18. Whaaaaaa. Admit that I’m wrong to my parents. My mom loves that kind of get together anyway.

19! I still got all that adventure in my heart, with it fomenting in my innards, rushing in torrents of passion from my eyes, ears, nose, throat! It’s just no longer in my anus.

20. Since 1st grade, I gave up counting. But I’ll just say 2. It’s a nice easy number.

21. I CANNOT WAIT TO DIE. I mean. I’m looking forward to the experience but have no issue with living. For a while. For like…a handful of decades more. But not like, exactly a handful of decades from now. But like…when it happens……Look, I just don’t want to be a vampire living forever is all. I’m so thankful I’m not a vampire.

13. I did not wet the bed over lobster toes, if that’s what you’re asking.

22. Every time my transmission shakes the whole car for 5 second intervals when driving between 61 and 67 mph

22a. When I was younger I had this all black cat named Spooky. I considered him mine and not the family cat for reasons which I will explain. On my 7th birthday my half brother, Les, who was my dad’s son but not my mom’s, and the same age as my mom, both of them being in their mid 30′s at the time, came home. Les didn’t really live with us, but sometimes he would. My mom was never happy about it and my dad was always reluctant, mostly because my mom and Les did not get along. Les, since before I was born, had been in and out of jail for drug and theft charges and probably involved in other things that my dad didn’t want to let me and my brother’s know about. Usually when Les was living with us it meant he had just gotten out of jail or a work program or been kicked out of where ever he was staying. He never stayed for more than a couple of weeks at a time and he would stay in my room since I had two twin beds on opposite sides of my room and my brothers shared a bunk bed in another room. So, just before sunrise, July 31st, 1995, there was a barrage of taps on my bedroom window. With it being my birthday I didn’t hesitate to assume my parent’s had planned some elaborate surprise for me which started at the crack of dawn and would likely last all week, so I shot out of bed then quickly composed myself to play it cool. I peeked through the blinds and saw two oval yellow eyes staring back at me. I screamed. My dad came rushing into my room to make sure I hadn’t been murdered by the ET that lived in my closet (I was not a fan of the alien). Before I could properly explain to him what I saw and after he realized that I was fine, the doorbell rang. My dad headed to the front door with me in tow, sure that it was ET’s family coming to finally take my Odie doll since the ET in my closest had definitely already stolen my Garfield. My mom had beat us to the front door. Before I could warn her about the alien she swung open the door. Les was standing on our front stoop with his ratty Jansport backpack in one hand and a black kitten with the prettiest yellow eyes in the other. As far as words that were exchanged at this point, I don’t remember. I know it was loud and angry because the kitten’s eyes got wider and he started to scratch at Les’ arm. With it being my birthday and without a Garfield to my Odie, I dashed to the kitten’s rescue and pulled it from Les’ arm skin. My parents continued to scream and a drugged Les smiled back like the goon that I’ve never seen him not be and I raced to my room with the kitten in my arms.
The rest of the day went by with no interaction from my parents as they quickly learned that Les had just robbed somebody’s home in our neighborhood and the cops had been told by our neighbor where Les sometimes lived. I spent my 7th birthday playing with a kitten. Due to our first meeting through my blinds, I thought it apt to name him Spooky. He seemed to like it.
Five years later, my family and myself and Spooky and my mom’s evil Siamese cat, Sophie, moved to Northern Utah. We had been living in Utah for almost a year and I still was not used the terrifying roads that we had to take driving back into the little valley in which we lived. The options were vomit-inducing swervy canyon pass with the raging rapid river that hugged one side OR the pee-your-pants mountain pass that never failed to bring on vertigo when you looked to the drop-off if you couldn’t handle staring at the stone wall that threatened to run into your car if you got too close to it. We were taking the mountain pass home after a day of school shopping when suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. It hurt. And then it pierced again. Then, it wouldn’t stop, it was just one long intense pain that made me scream out to my mom who was concentrating on the treacherous pass she was driving, “Mom! I’m dying!” (I’ve learned to use less dramatic words when someone is driving on narrow scary roads since.) My mom almost sent the car into the side of the mountain before coming to a complete stop with one wheel kissing too much air on the drop-off side. I opened the car door and threw up over the side of the mountain.
The rest of the drive home I still felt the sharp pain in my stomach. I remember telling my mom that something was wrong. “What do you mean? Are you going to throw up again?” I didn’t know how to explain it but I knew that something other than my stomach hurting was wrong. Something very bad has happened. I didn’t know what it was, I just wanted to get home as fast as possible.
We pulled up to the house and I stepped out of the car and immediately started crying. I couldn’t tell if I was still hurt or why I was so scared or what was wrong with me but I didn’t stop crying until several hours later when my dad came in from the shed.
He said he had found Spooky out in the shed. Somehow he had gotten into the anti-freeze. He must have knocked it over and it burst open. He had licked it up. My dad had always told us that the anti-freeze smells and taste sweet and never to do anything dumb with it because it was poison. “I’m sorry kiddo. Spooky’s dead.”
I still miss Spooky. He’s way better than Garfield.

XXIII. c. the son of Zeus. but without the testicles and penis part. and I have boobs. and a vagina. and softer bone structure. and no Disney movie about me.

YYIV. I’m not a giraffe.

XXV. No way but I sure do like to pretend when singing along.

ZZVI. Probably hanging out with the g-ma. She loves her looms of animal tapestries.

XXVII. and chocolate. and some music. and a comfy jacket.

28. You seem interesting and all, but…look it’s not you, it’s me. I need some space. It’s not the right time. I just can’t commit to someone who isn’t dead. Dewey’s my guy.

29. Hrm. I’ll get back to you on that one.

xxx. Definitely not ET. I’ve conquered/pretend to have conquered that fear.

31. I have no family who has had an elective surgery. But I have been asked to feel a girl’s new boobs before. I think I told her they were “nice and perky” but was secretly disappointed with the shape.

32. Every time I’ve had a flying dream, it’s been cruddy and limited. For some reason as soon as I’m flying I think, “Hey! I’m flying!” and then my body gets heavy and sinks me back into a house below through the roof. I try all night to make myself cut away the roof so I can float back out and fly around but I just get stuck in the top floor of some house until I wake up and go pee.

32. YES! Though, I’ve come to think it’s never appropriate when no proper respect is given to the origin. Which is why I now feel great about doing this because question numbers 1, 2, 3 made me realize that Tiffany, I appreciate the existentialism book I borrowed from you and told you I would return and then had many chances to and never did. You can’t have it back though.

33. Oh yeah.

thanks for this and the great site!

-Morgan

You know those books with the covers ripped off? That was me. You may use the number provided to report me.

Can we really misrepresent ourselves? If I lie, then I’m a liar, which is a fairly good representation of self. Maybe John Dewey has an opinion. (I do more to misrepresent myself by providing answers to these questions, any answers at all, than the answers themselves)

No. Some of these questions are a little too cute, but so far, no belligerence. No real tone, either.

IS this a survey? Really? I thought it was a test to see if I can be in your little group. But go ahead. I’ve always wanted to be published.

Depends on the party. A networking event attended by business professionals? Stephen Covey. A post-theater cocktail party? JD Salinger (or David Sedaris, depending on whether the actors are around). Lot’s of chicks with dark hair and red lipstick? Anne Rice. Book club party? Any author from The Oprah Winfrey Selection’s. What, no alcohol involved? James Frey. See? Do you see now?

Not sure…are you “someone attractive”? I’ll need to know before I can answer.

See above.

That’s an easy one. The Oxford William Shakespeare, The Complete Works. It has this neato feature in the back with modern day translations of each line. For the record, I did end up reading it. Good Stuff. Oh, and “Consciousness Explained”.

Please qualify the question. 9 volts taste much different than AAA’s.

Suffering is the human condition. Give me a warm, wet womb and I can be happy.

You ask this as if the bad luck doesn’t count if the mirror is broken in a fit of clumsiness.

There is a bell curve, where a=amount of drinks, b=average wpm and c=length of binge.

I believe in rhetorical questions and bullshit answers. I believe that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. I believe I am either lying or misrepresenting myself. I believe that maybe you shouldn’t?

See here? That’s a “cute” question.

This is not a number.

If you really want nachos but don’t have chips, cheese or salsa. However, considering PH imbalance due to lactic acid, I would recommend a plastic spoon.

We used to watch these movies in Home Ec. The bitch that goes crazy doesn’t necessarily die, but always, ALWAYS, ends up pregnant. The track coach usually does “get his”, but sometimes that means banging the cheerleader in the ball room while everyone else watched the movie. We are the monsters (fathers, mothers, children). Hey! Shesnotabitchitsjustathanklessjob.

Asked and answered, Counselor. Badgering the witness. Sustained!

“Molest my buttons?”. So fucking cute…

It’s still there. Does that make me a monster hiding in your closet?

A Thousand. Any more, and I sound pretentious. Any less, and I’m a liar.

Tsk Tsk Tsk. You’re associating time with proximity. It’s true that as we age we get closer to death. But that time I jumped out of an airplane, or the other time I hydroplaned on 95 into oncoming traffic? I was sitting right next to the bitch then, eating her fucking popcorn.

Have to love a question laced with metaphors and cursive language. Except for the part about Maine lobsters. Would Spiny lobster have ruined the metaphor since they’re lacking claws? What if I said Yes? Better yet, if someone could reasonably answer Yes to this question, how do you expect they would be able to finish the survey/admission exam/pre-interview questionnaire?

Machines don’t disappoint. Their programmers do. Duh. Intro to Computing and Technology, Day 1. It’s in the Goddamn syllabus.

I remember one I…perfect day and the equation was bright…Fred, for example (and lack of a better one)..inches seemed like miles…dark nights and darker days…but really, who would…so as you can see…mostly fines but possibly incarceration….can’t stand the darkness so he leaves me every winter…not the content so much as the context…and I was briefly, unjustly satisfied.

D. Definitely D. As long as Narcissistic is CAPITALIZED. No, wait..aren’t (a+b) and (c+d) basically the same? Way to limit my options.

I’ve suffered to eat tongue. Not just my own.

I know the old words to all the songs.

Here. I. Am.

All you need is an actual question.

I’ll take aggravated assault for 500, Alex.

Another terribly CUTE Question!!!

The basket weave.

Scars are life’s souvenirs. I’d rather see those than a slide show from Duluth.

Well, you see it’s like this…wait. What was the question? Seriously. I don’t know whether I should google “Flesh Eating Parasite” or go see How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.

Finally, a question I know the answer to…

Here. I. Am. Did I pass?

2. What books have you stolen, and under what circumstances did you take the book? (e.g. did you outright steal the book from a place of commerce, did you pilfer it discreetly from a relative, did you borrow it from a dear friend and never return it, etc.)
The book i borrowed and forgot to return was a fable book with lot of stories.

3. Do you intend to lie or misrepresent yourself on this survey?
No, I do not intend to lie or misrepresent myself on this survey. I intend to tell the truth.

4. Did you find question 3 to be a little belligerent in its tone?
No. I do not find question 3 to be belligerent in its tone.

4a. Do we have your permission to publish your survey results?
Yes. You have my permission to publish my survey results.

5. If someone attractive, at a party or social event, let’s say, was to ask you who your favorite author is, what would you say?
My favorite author is Chetan Bhagat.

6. Who is your favorite author?
My favorite author is Chetan Bhagat. My favorite authors change from time to time .

7. What is your favorite book?
Two States.

8. Please list any books you’ve bought because they might look impressive on your coffee table or bookshelf.
‘The winner stands alone’ by Paulo Coelho and ‘toxic bachelors’ by danielle steel.

9. Do the remnants of your shambolic youth taste like batteries in your mouth?
No.

10. Are you neurotypical or do you somewhat suffer?
No. I am not neurotypical.

11. In a fit of rage or despair, have you shattered a mirror or mirrors with your hands, cutting up your hands badly, getting blood on a favorite t-shirt (possibly ruining said shirt)? And if so, how far along are you into your seven year cycle of bad luck, and how has the bad luck manifested in your life?
I have never shattered a mirror. I do not believe in the seven year cycle of bad luck. I used to believe in luck. Life has taught me that there is no such thing as luck.

12. What is your wpm when drunk on whiskey drinks?
I do not drink. My typing speed is 20 wpm.

E. Do you believe in a life after love?
No. I do not believe in a live after love.

14. Can you recall when, as a young child, your now-deceased dear departed grandpa would cradle you gently and firmly in his arthritic clutch, his gnarled fingers inexplicably pink and yellow and purple and green and throbbing, his tired blood pulsing in tight, dry notches through those crumpled crooks; how he would gently sway you and hum and hum nonsense, soft murmurs distracting you from the fact that mother is still not home, can you please, now, recall?
Yes. I can recall.
17. Isn’t this a lucky number?
No. I do not believe in luck.

15. Is it ever okay to eat large amounts of cold sour cream directly from the plastic container, perhaps with a large metal spoon, and if it is ever okay to do such a thing, when is that time?
I eat ice creams at night.

16. When watching a movie intended to horrify hormonal teenagers, you identify most with:

a) the bitch who goes crazy and screams and loses it and ends up dying

b) the track coach who is a bully in an early scene but just fucking wait, he’ll get his

c) the monster’s mother

d) the bitch who sold you the popcorn
I do not identify with anyone above.

Ĵ. Do you believe in a love at first sight?
No. I do not belive in a love at first or second sight.

18. Would you rather admit that you were wrong to your gloating parent figure or would you rather me come to your house, steal some of your socks, molest your buttons, hold you down and brush your teeth, horseplay with your pets in a fashion too rough for their delicate bodies, &c?
No. I do not understand this question completely.

19! Where is the keen sense of adventure that once percolated in your heart, fomenting in your innards, rushing in torrents of passion from your eyes, ears, nose, throat, anus, &c.?
It is still there in my life.

20. How many books do you claim to have read?
I claim to read hundred books of many languages like english, marathi and hindi.

21. Does it worry your brow and brain that each day, even today, every moment, this passing moment in fact, even as you waste time reading this, all these times, yes!–even now, here, you are closer now than before to approaching death?
No. I do not think it is a waste of time reading this. I do not think of death.

13. When you were a child were you plagued by recurring nightmares that miniature werewolves in torn blue jeans were slowly nibbling all the flesh from your toes as if they were Maine lobsters (your toes, here likened to said lobsters, not the werewolves), nightmares that were attended by actual somatic tingling of the extremities, and possible bedwetting?
Yes. During my childhood I was afraid of ghosts at night.

22. How often do machines disappoint you?
The machines disappoint me when they do not work. The monitor dissapoints me when it does not show good display.

22a. I remember I had an interesting experience a few years back, which I will now try to relate to you. I was working for a horrible corporation that hired young English speakers to “teach” conversational English to native Japanese speakers. I was living in
Tokyo, Japan at the time. It’s important to better understand this story for you to know that at the time my brown pair of shoes was a pair of Clark’s Wallabees, dark brown leather, a replacement pair really for a lighter, beigeish (sp?) suede pair that I had loved and worn the fuck out of, so to speak, in my college days. There is a certain way to lace these shoes that makes them so fucking comfortable (it’s unbelievable!), but unfortunately, at the time I was living in Tokyo I had the new brown pair and had somehow (and I can’t remember how) undone the good, comfortable lacing set-up and the new set-up was painful—and I mean it fucking hurt to walk in those things. It was unpleasant. So and so you should also know that this guy, J_____, who I knew, had actually fixed my previous, beig(e?)ish Wallabees a few years prior to this, when for some reason, drunk on a cruise ship I had taken the laces out, and this guy J_____ showed me how to lace them properly (taught a man to fish, so to speak). But, frustrated and perhaps overworked and mayhap a little frazzled I couldn’t remember how to re-lace these newer brown leather Wallabees, and my feet were fucking killing me! But so here’s what happened: See: there was this kid of about twelve years who came to the English school that I worked at, who happened to have the Down’s. And because he was Downsy, some of my colleagues were uncomfortable with teaching him the conversational English. But so see that didn’t really bother me at all, in fact he was a nice kid, and though I don’t recall his name, he was nice and it was never a bad time to be in there with him, and to speak to him in English, and sometimes he might even speak a few words of English too, mostly animals and colors, because my major technique with him, my strategy so to speak, was to bring crayons and paper and pictures of animals and basic things, objects, and to like, draw the objects and have him draw the objects and say the names of the animals and objects and things and also the names of the colors of all the animals and objects and things, and most of the time this technique or strategy seemed to work out okay and besides his parents mostly seemed to want for him to do things, you know, he didn’t really need to learn conversational English (which I’m not really sure you can really learn anyway), it was more like horseback riding lessons or guitar lessons or ikebana or something for him, and for the most part I think everyone, his parents and my colleagues and the Japanese staff, and the pair of us, everyone that is, was okay with us just coloring and saying “red” and “egg” and so forth. But so and then anyway this one day one of my colleagues who didn’t particularly care to spend time, paid or otherwise, with this Down’s kid, this colleague asked if I would, you know, swap with her and could I go please give the kid his lesson? So I went into the Spartan little cubicle to chat with old Downsykins. Anyway so well, we usually got along, as I aforementioned, but today we weren’t vibing. I don’t know how else to put it, except and please accept that this kid put out a real intense vibe – it was palpable, tangible, thick like sweat and smelly. It permeated. And so he would have none of my strategy today, he wouldn’t look at the pictures I’d brought, he wouldn’t draw the object or the animal, he wouldn’t engage, he would just scribble in a minor fury. So and there was frustration between us, it seemed, and we couldn’t gel or vibe or get in sync, and at that point my feet were just killing me, just fucking so painful, so that I just had to get down there and untie the Wallabees , and then take them off and then even start massaging the instep, and relieve my poor dogs. And as I massaged the brutal crinks out of my pathetic feet maybe it was that my attitude and posture and vibe changed. Maybe I started feeling better. And well so I guess because of this Mr. Downs and I started to sync up more, and at this particular point in my memory he kind of put his head directly on his desk, right in the middle of his scribbled mess of colors, his full fathom five for frustration, and I could feel this weird vibe from out of his eyes and ears &c. And I massaged my awful clump of a foot and just tuned into his head-on-the-desk vibe. It was harmonic. And then well I could clearly recall, like an eidetic Guinness Book freak the whole scene years earlier on that booze cruise ship—there, in Tokyo, I was there, in the Gulf of fucking Mexico, bending down to the sticky dance club floor, being shown how to do something, learning how to do something, with my laces, as it were. So and in the little corral the twain of us shared, I, like I was doing it in my sleep, I re-laced the new brown leather Wallabees making them somehow instantly comfortable and comforting, endearing them to my feet again, snug in the right places, all the pain and crimp gone.
So well at that point the kid took his head up and the whole trance was over between us it seemed, and but it was a warm and calm and generally gently chilled kind of come-down atmosphere between us and the little cubicle. And I admit that I was happy and my soles were healed and I might have learned something. But I can always unlearn it. Please relate a similar experience.
This is a unique experince you had.

XXIII. You would best describe yourself as

a) a petulant phony

b) a monomaniacal fraud

c) the son of Zeus

d) a Narcissistic douche bag
I would best describe myself as a loner.

YYIV. Do you suffer from black (sometimes known as brown) tongue?
No.
XXV. Do you know all the words to all the old songs?
No.

ZZVI. You are in a room. There is a large loom in the center of the room; an unfinished tapestry of a bear hangs on the loom. The bear is completely white. Where are you?
Castle.
XXVII. All you need is love?
All I need is to be left alone. I can produce my own love.
28. John Dewey or aggravated assault (c/o yrstruly)?
Who is John Dewey?

29. Two trains separated by 667 miles of densely populated urban sprawl travel toward each other along the same track, the first train at 9993 mph, the second at 2323.2323232 mph. Some people on the first train are hatless. At least one woman on the second train is wearing a hat. Some of the people on both of the trains are women and children. A Pegasus flutters back and forth between the two trains until they collide. If the Pegasus flutters sweetly at 776.667 mph, casting riddles, what should a hatless man on the second train answer to the following riddle, and at what speed will the man find the life-force crushed out his fragile body?—translated from the original Pegasese—

For her First Communion, I stole for my brother’s daughter a set of five Russian dolls, painted. I’m sure you know the kind. Upon initial inspection, the set appears in the unity of one doll, but bisect said doll at the waist and find within the riches of another painted doll, perhaps more exquisite than the first (but possibly not), and within that doll, once popped along the seam, yes, another doll, and within that, a solid central doll glowing like the embers of the twilit sun, yes yes! Each doll has been baptized and christened by Pan hisself; the solid central glowing &c. doll is named after my niece. Size you the dolls from that which taketh the largest portion of space to the teeniest; also give me their names (one is named Foxy, b/t/w); also, tell me the color of each doll’s dress, and my brothers daughter’s name. Can this you do?

a) Yoshiko, with the bone dress, isn’t the widest or the fiercest.

b) Pop open the doll with the cream dress, and Sanchez appears.

c) Barely fitting inside the doll with the ecru dress, Gabby is stifled.

d) Charmykins is somewhat smaller than the doll with the eggshell dress.

e) The third largest doll has either the cream or the bone dress.

f) The doll with who is my niece will ask of you this:

“What lives for ever and never dies,

Has knife for tongue and teeth for eyes,

Bricks for ears and pricks for spines,

Eats hearts for snacks and drinks blood for wine?”

xxx. What do you see when you turn out the light?
No idea.

31. Have you ever endured a peek at a relative’s elective surgery, remarked on their scars, assured them that they were not now freakishly repulsive to you, an aberration that made it difficult to not throw up a little bit in your mouth, &c (note: not limited to boob jobs)?
Yes.
32. When you finally fall asleep—funny how you think that you’re exhausted but it turns out that you were actually restless, perhaps bodily ambivalent about the day’s smaller and larger successes and failures, perhaps that fifth cup of coffee was a bad idea, or you find it difficult to crash into slumbers because you forgot to call your mother back, and things aren’t really going well with/for her as it is, and you should really do more for her, be a better adult child, or maybe you forgot to post the check to the electric company, or maybe your pet doesn’t really love you like you think that they do, or maybe you’re sick and you don’t know it because you haven’t seen a doctor in so long, and how would you even know, I mean, what if you had some disease that was eating you alive right now, only it had no real outwardly-manifesting symptoms, but meanwhile it’s inside you eating you up like millions and millions of minute (microscopic really) crabs—and when you finally fall asleep, do you fantasize about flying like a winged creature?, or perhaps you fantasize about flying without wings?, soaring through the azure sky on lightning-bolt legs, the pure joy of it, the literal exhilaration—or maybe you don’t even think about flying even though you used to, especially when you were a kid, when you used to think about it all the time, when you used to pray for some kind of special (possibly cybernetic?) flight-suit, but now you think about being a sniper, about shooting faceless people from a long distance, but not even shooting them, just kind of watching them and knowing that you could shoot them?, and isn’t that, in some inexplicable way, the opposite of flying?
I think about my blog stats when I fall asleep.

32. What gets wetter and wetter the more it dries? Okay, okay, I admit—I didn’t originate that question! Haven’t you ever stolen or borrowed or pilfered, burgled, pinched, filched, embezzled, &c.? Isn’t it sometimes appropriate to appropriate? Isn’t this what this whole thing is about?
No idea.

33. Still there?
Yes. I want more. I like your blog. I could answer some questions. But many questions were beyond my thinking capacity. Thank you.