My whole life I’ve been a fraud. I’m not exaggerating. Pretty much all I’ve ever done all the time is try to create a certain impression of me in other people. Mostly to be liked or admired. It’s a little more complicated than that, maybe. But when you come right down to it it’s to be liked, loved. Admired, approved of, applauded, whatever. You get the idea. I did well in school, but deep down the whole thing’s motive wasn’t to learn or improve myself but just to do well, to get good grades and make sports teams and perform well. To have a good transcript or varsity letters to show people. I didn’t enjoy it much because I was always scared I wouldn’t do well enough. The fear made me work really hard, so I’d always do well and end up getting what I wanted. But then, once I got the best grade or made All City or got Angela Mead to let me put my hand on her breast, I wouldn’t feel much of anything except maybe fear that I wouldn’t be able to get it again. The next time or next thing I wanted. I remember being down in the rec room in Angela Mead’s basement on the couch and having her let me get my hand up under her blouse and not even really feeling the soft aliveness or whatever of her breast because all I was doing was thinking, ‘Now I’m the guy that Mead let get to second with her.’ Later that seemed so sad. This was in middle school.
Nu e scris de mine. Nu e nici Orwell, nici Dostoievski. L-am salvat pe desktop si il citesc din cand in cand. E din Good Old Neon, a short story in Oblivion. Am avut un soc cand l-am citit prima data, fiindca mi s-a parut ca ma regasesc aici si I was exposed. Dar, dupa ce m-am gandit un pic, am ajuns la concluzia ca nu sunt chiar asa, ca aproape nimeni nu e chiar asa si chiar daca esti asa, macar faci lucruri bune ca sa impresionezi oameni. Cat de rau poate sa fie? Btw, tipul care a scris treaba de mai sus – David Foster Wallace – s-a sinucis.