I had a lot of little things today that I was going to blog about, but then I realized it would just be a laundry list of today's activities. And my minute-to-minute life interests no one. But I still feel like I should blog something. And then it occurred to me that I named my blog freakin Prolix but none of my entries is ever very long; in fact, they've been getting shorter on average as I go on. Am I unconsciously catering to the products of our more-now-faster society? That would be so pathetic if I was. I have a zillion thoughts racing through my head any given minute, and I limit myself to only blogging a couple sentences per day about trivial crap. Is it the trivial crap that I do that defines me in cyberspace, or is it what goes on in my head? Do I even want to share what goes on in my head? More on this below...

I'm reading You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers. I have 50 pages left, and I really should finish it tonight. For most of the book, I had this romantic notion (romantic as in idealized and adventurous, and I suppose romantic as in love) that my worth would be validated if someone like Will (the main character) fell in love with me. I thought he was the type of the person who could love everything more intensely than everyone else, and understood everything on a deeper level, and thus I would have proof that I was a wonderful magical complex person by virtue of earning his love. And then I realized that Will probably isn't the most mentally stable person, and he's sinking deeper and deeper every second. But then I started thinking that the thoughts he has aren't all that different from the thoughts that occupy me. Now I'm wondering if everybody thinks like this all the time. Is Will crazy? Am I crazy? Are we both? Is everyone? I decided that I must know, but I don't know how to go about finding out. I really like Dave Eggers. Really, really like. He has such a knack for examining the human spirit, noticing the small things that define us, and he's able to replicate them exactly. I'm continually amazed at how very real everything is. I want to be able to write like Dave Eggers, but I know I never will. If someone as attentive and wise as he were to find me worthwhile and loveable and intelligent, I know I would be happy.

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