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.

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.)
Led Zeppelin IV guitar book
The Super Guitar Song Book
The Guitar Grimoire
Everything But Espresso

3. Do you intend to lie or misrepresent yourself on this survey?
If relevant

4. Did you find question 3 to be a little belligerent in its tone?
no, but perhaps a bit pugnacious

4a. Do we have your permission to publish your survey results?
I’m publishing it right here.

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?
George Orwell

6. Who is your favorite author?
Aldous Huxley

7. What is your favorite book?
Catcher in the Rye

8. Please list any books you’ve bought because they might look impressive on your coffee table or bookshelf.
The Encyclopedia of Ignorance

9. Do the remnants of your shambolic youth taste like batteries in your mouth?
Yes, 9volts especially.

10. Are you neurotypical or do you somewhat suffer?
I must be 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?

12. What is your wpm when drunk on whiskey drinks?

E. Do you believe in a life 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?

17. Isn’t this a lucky number?

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?

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
The monster’s mother, C

Ĵ. Do you believe in a love at first sight?
Yeah, but I probably wouldn’t recognize it.

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?
I’d admit I was wrong, there’s no shame in that. You doing those things to ME? Eh, I couldn’t tell that story even if my other option was death.

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.?
Living in the souls of my children.

20. How many books do you claim to have read?
How ever many I’ve read. Er, 15 approximately. Give or take the number ‘i’.

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, but it will.

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?
Always. Minus the lobster toes and werewolves.

22. How often do machines disappoint you?
Their life expectancy

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.

I was working at this coffee shop, you see, and one day this older gentleman came in. Well, let me go back and say I was having a shitty day. I wasn’t working in one of those chain starbucks or anything, and it wasn’t one of those starbucks wannabe’s either. I was working at (not to toot my employer’s horn) the best coffee shop in the city. Granted, I use the term city loosely, but that kind of loosely you get when you don’t tie your left shoe as tight as the right. Anyway, I always get these indignant deserving people coming in and bitching about shit. I can’t give you a very good example, I tune most of it out. My guest would be to say money, or something along the depreciation of their new Volvo or Mercedes or something. Sometimes it’s about the game, but who gives a shit about the game. Anyway, it was a pretty shitty ass day. I really just hate the job. But anyway, this old man comes in and was asking me about the book I was reading. Asking me! I was pretty shocked, people don’t even ask me how my days going usually. So we chatted it up about Douglas Adams, and his dirk gently books. I was pretty fond of ‘em, but anyway, he was still a customer and I wasn’t ready to put some faith in him just because he also liked ol’ DA. But then again, I had this weird feeling inside me, you know, the one you get when someone isn’t who they appear to be. I started hating him for that too. Like he was deceiving me or something. Anyway, we chatted for another minute or so until he asked me where the papers were. Then I noticed his hat. He had on this red baseball cap. It wasn’t like any old baseball cap, it was MY baseball cap. Well, only different. suddenly I had this overwhelming feeling I was talking to my grandfather. It was really strange, the connection I had with this old man. My grandfather passed away about a year ago. I loved him. I mean, it was terrible when I lost him, I like to imagine what life would be like if he were still here to talk to with. I know he’s out there, watching over me, protecting me. The baseball cap, the red one? The one that was mine? I got it from my grandfather.

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

The Son of Zeus

YYIV. Do you suffer from black (sometimes known as brown) tongue?
nah

XXV. Do you know all the words to all the old songs?
I believe that to be impossible.

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?
Home, duh.

XXVII. All you need is love?
and liqour

28. John Dewey or aggravated assault (c/o yrstruly)?
Both

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?”

Oh, God.

xxx. What do you see when you turn out the light?
A kaleidoscope of black

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)?
Nope

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?

That is the opposite of flying. I dream of future. Of flying cars (in dreams) and absurd taxes (in nightmares)

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?
Maybe embellish? Isn’t appropriate it procreate?

33. Still there?
Fortunately yes, approximately 8 hours later (give or take a few breaks here and there, and here and there)

2. Books that fit in my pants. Seriously. That’s my MO.

3. Misrepresentation is what I do.

4. I found it very attorney-ish.

4a. Yes, but only if people like them and they bring me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it.

5. i don’t know. Not that I don’t know what I’m going to say, because I do know, I would say I don’t know, that’s what I would say. i don’t know what I would say, really.

6. I don’t know.

7. All those that I’ve finished. Fuck the rest.

8. I don’t drink coffee.

9. Like exhausted batteries. Which don’t have any taste really, so no.

10. Somewhat. Isn’t that typical?

11. I dropped it because the handle broke in my hand, OK? I’m not taking any bad luck for this. It was an accident.

12. 33.3 knots per hectoPascal

E. No, only in love after life. Or after hours. OK, sometimes during lunch break.

14. My mother was rarely home.

17. No.

15. Yes. Ever.

16. e) The scriptwriter, who though that writing isn’t that hard after all.

Ĵ. Yes, to see me is to love me.

18. &c. I would rather &c.

19! Some if it still clings to the hair around my anus, &c.

20. Lots, let me tell you.

21. Worry me? What’s more reassuring that getting a bit closer to the greatest certainty in every man’s life?

13. What’s a Maine lobster? So I guess yes, all the time.

22. Never. They do what I tell them. I am disappointed in myself for not being able to do that better.

22a. The same thing happened to me once. It was the same and I can totally relate.

XXIII. Yes, yes I would.

YYIV. I don’t suffer from it, no.

XXV. I know some of the words to all the old songs, and all the words to some of the old songs, and sometimes I know old the words to some of the all songs.

ZZVI. I’m right here, wrapping this up now.

XXVII. It’s not all I need, no, but I need all of it, so all love is what I need.

28. Oh yes, please. Aggravated, yes.

29. In a New York minute.

Yes, I think I can. Want me to try now, or…like later, or can I take this home and get back to you? Or do you, I mean was I supposed to do it right now? I didn’t know, sorry. I mean, yes, I think I can.

“Is this a question?”

xxx. The switch, for a moment, and then the tiny red dot on the switch.

31. It did not make it difficult to not throw up a bit in my mouth, it did not make anything difficult, in fact what was difficult stayed that way and what was easy also pretty much stayed that way because it just came naturally to me or I was getting good at it or just not thinking about it, and what was difficult was not more difficult, I mean it was still hard but it could have been worse or even perhaps even worse than before. I, listen, I do not throw up in my mouth, I just let it go. It goes out of my mouth, it’s throwing out really, not up, it’s outwards and downwards, so pretty much, yeah.

32. No, not quite, not in an inexplicable way, no. In an explicable way, I think yes. it is explicable.

32. Isn’t what what this whole thing is about? This? I mean, I don’t think so, this isn’t what this whole thing is about, maybe this is what part of this whole thing is about, and even this is what this whole thing isn’t about, entirely. Meaning whole, the whole thing, or wholly the thing, because it’s an adverb.

33. Still where?

4. Did you find question 3 to be a little belligerent in its tone? uh, yea!

4a. Do we have your permission to publish your survey results? sure.

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? Oh god I am terrible at answering questions like this when I am actually attracted to someone.

6. Who is your favorite author? I don’t know. I don’t have a favorite. I tend not to reread books. I want to read as many books as I can in my lifetime by as many different writers as possible.

7. What is your favorite book? Most recently, “Are You There God, Its Me Chelsea” by Chelsea Handler. Is that bad? I could have said “John Adams” by Daniel McCoulough but in truth he’s a close second.

8. Please list any books you’ve bought because they might look impressive on your coffee table or bookshelf. Everything I read lately is because I need to review it. But I do judge a book by its cover. I think good designers deserve credit for their work.

9. Do the remnants of your shambolic youth taste like batteries in your mouth? Sometimes…

10. Are you neurotypical or do you somewhat suffer? I pretty normal I think

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?
HAHA ehh no.
12. What is your wpm when drunk on whiskey drinks?
Again, funny. I don’t know. I am a fast typer and can function well drunk. So I’d imagine a lot!
E. Do you believe in a life after love? Yea. Cher taught me to.

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? No…

17. Isn’t this a lucky number? I like this number actually. This and the number 2.

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? Absolutely not!

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

A for sure
Ĵ. Do you believe in a love at first sight? Yes

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? I ok admitting I am wrong. That’s why people don’t gloat at me. It’s no fun.

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.? I decided I needed to hunker down and make a career

20. How many books do you claim to have read? I have no idea. That’s like asking how many people I’ve slept with. If I had to guess…200. About 20 to the second guess.

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? Nah. I am reading this so that I can do what is important in life…. get people to read MY blog and start a portfolio to become a book editor.

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? Can’t say I have.

22. How often do machines disappoint you? Lately, not often! I rather like them!

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.

One time when I was jogging a car pulled up really fast, like there was something wrong. I stopped to observe and suddenly a couple of teenagers hopped out of the car, approached me, tried to keep a straight face, stared at my bewilderment, and silly sprayed me. In the face.
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

C… I think?
YYIV. Do you suffer from black (sometimes known as brown) tongue? WTF is that? No. When I’m drunk I can make my tongue stick out like Raegan’s from The Exorcism.

XXV. Do you know all the words to all the old songs? Nope but my mom probably does.

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? Texas Roadhouse?

XXVII. All you need is love? Sometimes. When I have everything else I need.

28. John Dewey or aggravated assault (c/o yrstruly)? Who? Dewey decimal?

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?

I didn’t even read this.

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? Cockroaches and Rats

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)? No.

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?

TOO LONG
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?
????
33. Still there? You are losing me.

Oh thank god it’s over.

1. It seems to me that stealing a book is an acceptable peccadillo, in the same vein as stealing food for one’s family. And if you’re going to steal food for your family, you might as well go for the good stuff. Shove a nice big steak down your pants, maybe some paté; grab some wine while you’re at it.

2. Once, when I was much younger and working in the library of a hoity-toity Ivy league college, I fell in love with a children’s book by Edward Gorey called Donald and the …. Yes, that’s right, and the …, and you are supposed to open the book to discover what the … is. In typical Gorey fashion, the … turns out to be a maggot that little toe-headed Donald finds at the bottom of a garbage can and takes home to play with. The maggot infects him with some horrid illness from which he narrowly recovers.
How charming! I thought. When I have kids, this is the kind of book I will read to them. I will dress them in all black, I will teach them my favorite swear words, I will let them drink coffee, I will let them play with garbage. I will give them little tattoos, maybe a heart with “mom” written inside.

3. There were probably many other books I have stolen, stupid or boring ones I don’t want to admit. Perhaps I have stolen so many I can’t remember them all. Maybe I’m a bibliokleptomaniac.

Of course I am not telling the whole truth. In real life, I sound just like your mother. But here, I am a brazen, foul-mouthed goth girl.

4. So shut up and listen.

4a. Okay, fine. I will treat you like my four year old. If you insist.

5. Darling, if you want to spell “your” with an apostrophe, go right ahead. We’ll tell the teacher not to squelch your flourish.
Now, remember: “Lolita,” is the sexy answer when someone sexy asks who your favorite author is. (The smart and sexy answer is “Nabokov.”)

6. My favorite author is Toni Morrison and Philip K. Dick and Jose Saramago.

7. Saramago wrote Blindness. I wrote about it http://thegirlinthehat.wordpress.com/2010/11/12/how-to-make-a-grown-woman-cry/ here.

8. Alas, my bookshelf is full of books I have not read, but I did not buy them to impress you. I bought them to make an impression on the person I used to be, the one who read books. Who has time for Freedom?

9. Memories of my shambolic youth taste like mushrooms sautéed in coconut oil (with garlic). Or maybe they taste like monkey brains boiled in red wine (with garlic).

10. I wonder: Isn’t it typical to suffer? Did I mention that I write?

11. Mirrors lack dimension. Choose a window instead—it’ll take you farther. (http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20110327203417AAJPkgV

12. Speaking of jumping out a window, the last time someone asked me how many words per minute I typed, I seriously considered suicide. I wrote about it http://thegirlinthehat.wordpress.com/2011/02/22/awakenings/ here.

E. Do I strike you as a romantic? Or should I just clop you real horrorshow?

14. Enough about you, my darling. This is my narcissistic pool we’re dipping into.

17. My lucky number is 19, by the way.

15. Me me me me me! Me? (Excuse me. Just clearing my throat.)

16. I’ve always thought that Grendl’s mother needs a better name. If I wrote her story, I’d call her Betty. Just think of the shit poor Betty had to put up with.

Ĵ. Grendl: the aging bachelor living at home with mum. No woman would have him.

18. I bet he spent all his time spying on the neighbors, threatening, decapitating, molesting, baring his teeth and pissing around his territory. I bet he spent the rest of his time watching sports, horror movies, and porn. I bet Grendl wet the bed.

19. I bet Betty got damn tired of cleaning up all the bodily fluids. My god, Grendl. Get a tissue!

20. But who knows?

21. Not me.

13. Everyone has monsters in their closets. As a child I had a recurring nightmare of a man who wanted to keep me in a tower (and always ended with his slow-motion fall from the top; as he falls, he spins, hitting his head repeatedly against the plaster facade, spilling blood and brains, limbs catching on the iron bars). I haven’t had that dream for thirty years but still remember it vividly.

22. People disappoint me more than machines ever could.

22a. Do you ever find yourself in the middle of a conversation that feels more like a tennis match? You know, one person just waiting for the other to stop speaking so that they can have their turn? Two briefly interrupted monologues. One person reminisces about how comfortable an old beloved pair of Wallabees was while the other stares at the ceiling as she recounts a dream she once had (my god, how boring, no wonder therapists get paid big bucks). When she stops to take a sip of whisky (to whet the whistle so to speak), he barges on: Speaking about dreams, those shoes were so fucking dreamy…. When he starts moaning about some guy who taught him to lace his shoes, she wonders if it’s a metaphor, wonders what her therapist would say, and their dialogues starts sounding like the first section of Sound and the Fury, two ghosts yearning to feel their own flesh, two oddly parallel arcs making a discordant harmony, pushing up and up toward their disconnected epiphanies, and it was almost harmonic, almost meaningful.

XXIII. If I were to describe myself, I would not use someone else’s words, now would I?

YYIV. I have a bubblegum tongue.

XXV. (I only use other people’s words when I’m listening to music.)

ZZVI. I am the eggman. I am the walrus.

XXVII. (Coo coo ca choo.)

28. I bet Grendl was colorblind. He probably saw everything in black or white. He probably knew all the words to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7gFlSGXt_k this song.

29. I am the girl in the hat http://thegirlinthehat.wordpress.com/ . I am reading Oedipus and listening to my Ipod. The best part is the chorus.

xxx. When I turn out the light, I see stars.

31. I am not afraid of mirrors but, like I said, windows are much more interesting.

32. In conclusion: “adult children” is an oxymoron and nobody, not even your best friend, really wants to hear about your dreams. Neurotics always remind me of Woody Allen and sometimes I think I’m a man trapped in a woman’s body; an ugly, nerdish, cranky little man. Sometimes we catch sight of each other in the mirror. http://thegirlinthehat.wordpress.com/2011/04/21/20-random-things-about-me/ We pretend not to notice. So take it from me: Choose the window.

(I also carry two invisible swords crossed across my back, but I’ve never had to use them.)

32. What gets wetter and wetter the more it dries? A towel. Or perhaps an oroborus. And here we are, back where we started. Yes, I admit. I have stolen a book. A book about a wyrm.

33. I am always http://thegirlinthehat.wordpress.com/ here.

2.I used to work for one of the chains. Too many to list, but suffice to say I stuck with dead authors, and those books with covers which I could not resist.

3. Possibly

4. I thought it was a fair question, though I would say it might put some on the defensive.

4a. Sure, as long as you promise to delete them if I ever interview for a high-paying job.

5. If the event were tonight, I would say Roberto Bolaño

6. ibid

7. journey to the end of the night or Distant Star

8. I bought one years ago that revolved around corporate logos, but I have since sold it via amazon.

9. Worse

10. I suffer

11. No, but I once punched in an alarm clock, something to do with the disappointment of Time and the meaningless of it all or something equally juvenile or philosophical.

12. 3

E. I sing that song to my cat daily.

14. My grandfather is still banging chicks.

17. No, but if you want to believe it is, fine.

15. People should feel free to eat whatever they please, no matter how nasty it is, and I would say sour cream is relatively low on that scale considering there are sick fucks out there who actually get off on eating spoonfuls of feces.

16. c

J. Y

18. My mother has never been right, and my father drank himself to death. I’m pretty sure my cats would eat you alive.

19! It’s waiting for until Jan. 3rd

20. Many, but not so many as others have

21. Well, I’m wasting time answering this, so I am going to have to go with No, it does not bother me. I have done less with more.

13. I have never wet the bed due to a nightmare, but I have shit my pants during a baseball game.

22. daily

22a. Yes, I have read DFW

XXIII. d

YYIV. I have a clean tongue, but a foul mouth

XXV. How old are the songs?

ZZVI. I am the incomplete bear

XXVII. F

28. Rudolf Steiner

29. There is too much superfluous information, and not enough critical detail to successfully solve this riddle

xxx. darkness

31. No, but I have my own

32. Lately, in my dreams I am usually captaining an ocean liner through the city streets as the water from the ocean chases behind my ship across the avenue and streets, submerging all of this man-made wreckage beneath it’s sturdy waves. I suppose it’s a Noah’s Ark Dream.

32. ask a stolen question, get a stolen answer.