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Random Thoughts I Meant to Record But Never Did:
Wednesday: I know road rage is wrong; I know shotguns are not the answer to the oblivious rudeness of strangers; I know that Norm was deranged and dangerous and a family annihilator, to boot. I know these things.
And yet, when he shot the woman on the Bluetooth who'd cut him off in traffic and then berated and ridiculed him when he attempted to confront her, I experienced a brief, shameful frisson of satisfaction. It was wrong, and I'm totally going to Hell for delighting in such a disproportionate comeuppance, but I'm not going to disown the feeling, either.
I know what it's like to feel invisible, impotent, and worthless. I'm confronted with the invisibility of disability every day. You do get that angry, that desperate to be heard and seen, to be taken seriously as a human being and not considered a breathing obstacle to other people's lives. The difference between Norm and me is that I know blowing away random motorists on the freeway won't change a goddamn thing, and even if it would, my aim sucks, and I'd probably blow my ladybits off instead.
Friday: Oh, Charlie, why? Why are you sporting a terrifyingly unflattering Julius Caesar haircut? Were you hoping to distract us from the fact that Rob Morrow is now shampooing with bootblack in a feeble attempt to maintain the illusion of mid-thirties youth? If so, I can't say it didn't work, because I was so mesmerized by the wretchedness of your new coiffure that I couldn't focus on anything else, including the dry, uninteresting case.
Larry needs to take the math car to the nearest salon not run by palsied stroke victims and demand that they fix your hair.
Wednesday: I know road rage is wrong; I know shotguns are not the answer to the oblivious rudeness of strangers; I know that Norm was deranged and dangerous and a family annihilator, to boot. I know these things.
And yet, when he shot the woman on the Bluetooth who'd cut him off in traffic and then berated and ridiculed him when he attempted to confront her, I experienced a brief, shameful frisson of satisfaction. It was wrong, and I'm totally going to Hell for delighting in such a disproportionate comeuppance, but I'm not going to disown the feeling, either.
I know what it's like to feel invisible, impotent, and worthless. I'm confronted with the invisibility of disability every day. You do get that angry, that desperate to be heard and seen, to be taken seriously as a human being and not considered a breathing obstacle to other people's lives. The difference between Norm and me is that I know blowing away random motorists on the freeway won't change a goddamn thing, and even if it would, my aim sucks, and I'd probably blow my ladybits off instead.
Friday: Oh, Charlie, why? Why are you sporting a terrifyingly unflattering Julius Caesar haircut? Were you hoping to distract us from the fact that Rob Morrow is now shampooing with bootblack in a feeble attempt to maintain the illusion of mid-thirties youth? If so, I can't say it didn't work, because I was so mesmerized by the wretchedness of your new coiffure that I couldn't focus on anything else, including the dry, uninteresting case.
Larry needs to take the math car to the nearest salon not run by palsied stroke victims and demand that they fix your hair.
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