The uncommoners

I don’t really give book recommendations, even though I pester other people to tell me what books I should read. How am I supposed to know what other people are going to like? I’ll read anything though, so I want to know what’s out there. I’m always looking for something more.

You should read Stoner. And Of Human Bondage. They are very, very good. I’m going to re-read The Dice Man soon. It’s not a very nice book in places. But it’s very, very good as well.

I tried to live by the dice. I couldn’t do it. I cheated and rolled again. And again. It does make life a bit weirder, though – if you like that kind of thing and have the balls to see it through. If you do horrible shit all the time though, then you won’t like what you keep rolling.

I don’t know why I’m confessing all this stuff to you. I have tarot cards because I was a thief when I was a child and stole a deck from John Menzies. I used to do tarot readings for myself because I was desperate to know when all the shitty, horrible stuff in my life was going to come to an end and I would finally be free from everything that held me back. But then I’d draw something I didn’t like the look of and I’d reshuffle and try again until I had a better fortune. Sometimes the better fortunes came true. It never occurred to me that it was all completely random. For years I thought I had superpowers.

The high points never really made up for the lows when I was young. Everything was too out of control, and I was a scared little thing. I hid myself away with books. I don’t need the world. I have my own. But there comes a time when you need to see these things for yourself; when you need to find out whether these things truly exist.

When I was very small, I thought the pylon I could see near my house was the Eiffel Tower because they were similar shapes and I had no fucking clue that other countries were not in the next town over. Clearly the atlas was always checked out of the library when I went in.

I lost my virginity under that Eiffel Tower. Toujours dans mon cœur.

I still have those tarot cards. They somehow came with me to every city, no matter how quickly I had to make my escape from the last one. I wish I could believe in them. They’ve been through a lot with me. Instead of asking pretty pictures and trying to plan for every conceivable outcome, I’ve taken to just waiting and watching. It only took me 32 years to realise that’s actually really exciting. The inconceivable has the same chance as the conceivable; you just haven’t thought about it yet.

You understood like no other, even if it was only for a brief moment. Thank you for sharing that moment with me. And, while I wouldn’t dare apologise, I do regret the words I chose. You didn’t hurt me. You could never, ever hurt me. I need the catastrophic lows, as well as the otherworldly highs. Where do you think all this comes from? But I fucked up. We move on.

I’m catching up on my studies by doing lots of lines.

What’s worse: being hated or being forgotten? How about not being noticed in the first place? Whichever one you end up with, it’s whatever you deserve.

We’re not like them. And I just can’t shut up.

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