pages 20-21


   This is getting hard, you guys. No, not emotionally. That I'm doing pretty okay with. It's getting hard to be inspired by his writing, to edit pages and then think of something semi-interesting to say about it, or a memory that was sparked by it, or anything, really, because it's SO. BORING.
   Oh, don't give me that. Just because he's my brother and just because he died doesn't mean I have to love every single thought he put to paper. I mean, that would be impossible, because so far it feels like he literally put EVERY. SINGLE. THOUGHT. TO. PAPER.

GET ON WITH IT BRO

   At first I wondered if this was just Alex's particular writing style, but then I had flashbacks to writing classes in college and realized that literary masturbation is not just an Alex problem, it's a guy problem. One guy in my class wrote a story that was more than 50 pages long. Another guy wrote a story that contained the actual line, "Don't you fucking die on me now, man!" Not that everything written by my female classmates was excellent (I include myself in this. I was terrible.), but from my experience, women don't write as though everyone is interested in every word they have to say. Probably because we are used to be told (by men) that they aren't. Women get to the point. Our time is precious and limited. We live in the real world where listing the number of bar stools in a bar at the current time compared to the last time you were in said bar years ago DOES NOT MATTER. Ugh. I wish I could have this conversation with Alex, mostly because it would have been a really good debate (he probably would have referenced some books or short stories or poems I had never read and would genuinely enjoy), but I think he'd see where I was coming from. While obsessed with women in the usual way most men are, he was also an ally to feminist causes and would readily admit us the stronger gender. If I could give him a copy of Anne Lamott's, Bird by Bird, I know he would read it.
   I thought of him last night when I was running. Well, I often think of him while I run, but this thought was triggered by a third party. As I was making my way south on a small street in my neighborhood, I came upon a guy my age who was walking toward me. As we approached each other, he said, "You already look good, what are you running for?" and smirked that gross little McNasty smirk face all those assholes make. "A MEDAL," I called back, and kept moving and imagined Alex holding up his hand to high five me for a good burn.
 









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pages 82-84

   A few nights ago I had a very vivid dream wherein I bought a vintage motorcycle. It was a Harley I think, from the 1970s. It had pistach...