"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."

I can go back and forth from acting to actually feeling without even paying a toll.


But the best acting is realistic, so this might be a good strategy. I act to accommodate others. Altruism is just a philosophical term for people-pleasing. I’m always so concerned about my ratings; is everyone watching. Are they being entertained. I’M DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

If I could go from listening to a favor to a compliment to a thank you card to a – and just never think about me. I’m not selfless, I have a self ThankYouVeryMuch, but it’s in someone else’s safe deposit box. That’s the only place for it. I don’t have anywhere to put it. I make a good pet, unlike jack russell terriers, which are quite crazy even if you feed them, which is unfortunate because after Frasier became such a big hit, everyone went to buy one and then regretted it. But they’re animals, after all, they’re animals, we can’t expect them to act…

My heart is sick. And my mind just looks at him and snickers, “you pussy. go to work. go do something for someone.” He’s right and I hate him for it. I hate them both and I hate myself for letting them live with me. Why did I spend twenty minutes researching pastor gay sex scandals. You can’t keep it together you can’t keep it apart and you’re going to get off and it’s going to get out there and you’ll be gone baby gone or going going gone or going for broke and if you’d Just Get A Grip You’re Not God He Just Gave You A Chance. I will start crying or yawning, whichever happens first.

I can’t be what you want do you understand that? I can’t be what I think you want.

I’m making an appointment with Paige tomorrow. She massagewashes my head with shampoo that smells like tree excrement (it’s superb to the hundredth power) and then cuts my hair one section at a time and is comfortable with long silences and asks me what I’m reading right now.


I read the lettering on the awning.  I read the lettering on the door.  I read the lettering on the Preferred Customer Card in my hand.

Then I walked in.

I made certain not to notice everyone noticing me.  I scanned the shelves uncertainly, then made a little-lamb-lost-in-the-storm face at the woman behind the counter.  “Could you help me?”  I asked, at once humble and confident (the signature of charm).  She smiled.  “Sure.  What is it?”  I looked at the card, then at her.  “My wife wanted me to pick up her – ” I paused, grinned at my ignorance, and made an ambiguous gesture.  “Her – foundation?”  She guessed, encouraging.  “Yeah,” I leaned in and stage whispered the confession, “she asked me this morning if I remembered what kind, and I said ‘of course I do,’ but I don’t.  But I don’t want her to know that,” and then I offered the card, “could you look that up?”  She smiled again as she took the card, “Of course.”  I beamed, a quarterback correctly answering a Trigonometry question.

She started typing just as someone else started tapping their fingernails on the counter – they duelled for a bit, then her voice declared it a draw: “It’s called medium beige.  Let me get that for you.”  She opened a drawer, took out a container, wrapped it up and handed it to me.  “Thank you so much,” I gushed, like I was meeting a celebrity and getting out of a speeding ticket at the same time.  “I’m glad I could help,” she said, stamping the card and charging my Visa.  I thanked her again and thought,

I could just tell them it’s for me.

But then I couldn’t play this character anymore.