Drinking (a caesar “spiced up”)
Watching a little bit of the US Presidential debate (horrendous)
Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel (one song, over and over and over)
Eating (overpriced sandwich and free bits and bites)
Thinking (about dehydration, mostly)
Blogging (right now!)
Staring (at the window at my reflection)
Winking (just for practice – left eye, right eye)
Reading (ALL of Augusten Burroughs’ book Magical Thinking)
In regards to the last item on the above list, which is, I suppose, the most substantive thing I did on the flight, I have this to say:
Is it not crazy that it took me a literal MONTH to get through the last book I read, and just a few HOURS to get through this one? I think it is. Crazy, that is. That’s not to say that I liked this one more. In fact, I probably liked the last one more. Lots more. But I’m still disturbed by the time difference. Do the math!* I mean, it took me like, three hours to read Magical Thinking. It took me like 6000 hours to read Disturbances in the Field. That doesn’t even seem POSSIBLE. Conclusion? Math is no good.
My dad loaned me the Burroughs book, probably because I got him onto David Sedaris earlier this year and the styles are remarkably similar. Shockingly so, actually. Upon loaning it to me, he (my dad) remarked that he thinks the three of us (Burroughs, Sedaris and me) write similarly, actually.
I don’t know about that. I really doubt it. I know that I write an inane and sometimes insane little blog about things I’m thinking and things I’m doing and every once in awhile, I’m funny. Or you’re touched. Or whatever. That’s cool. But never have I drowned a mouse, nor have I an alcohol addiction problem, but that’s just me. I’m also not a caustic gay male, prone to rhapsody about the 1970s.**
Sure, I went to Catholic school (which will fuck anybody up) and I was jealous of my sister and I spend many years being profoundly unhappy. I also have some obsessive compulsive tendencies and a need to be liked, but I’m nice to almost everyone and you can’t write a memoir and be nice at the same time.
I see niceness as a sort of life philosophy for myself, and if you’re nice, you can’t always be honest, and if you can’t always be honest then you can’t write a good memoir. That’s just the way these things work.
Not that I could write a good memoir anyway. It’s utterly pretentious to write a memoir in your 20s anyway. Nothing’s even happened to me yet. So were I to write a memoir it would be one of the following two things:
Land, you stupid plane. LAND. Love,
The Flying… Jen
* Note: this math is not actual math. **Which isn’t to say I disliked any of Sedaris' or Burroughs’ books. I didn’t. They’re great.