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2004-04-18 - 1:36 a.m.

I was in Borders tonight and bought an author. I've been searching for over a year now for E.M. Cioran. I recognized the girl, who sold it to me, a little bit. Usually she looks like she's having boyfriend problems or gastric juices are backfiring, something is the matter, I can only imagine. Tonight, she smiled sincerely and bounced expediantly off of the stool she was sitting on to ring me out. As she went to check the price of the book with no price I saw she had pink springs in her shoes. The brand of her shoe was betrayed in bold blue letters that read Puma. So maybe she wasn't looking forward to getting off of work, after work, eating something special saved in her fridge. Maybe she just walked differently, more vita something tonight b/c of a good pair of shoes.

So I felt really bad when she I heard her voice over the store intercom say "Price check on "On the heights of despair."

It was a mood reversal between me and my checkout queen, usually I'm the happy one and tonight I was very happy, strangely happy, so I was looking for something nasty to get me down so I can continue to imagine what concerns checkout girls in pink springy shoes might have instead of doing something productive like planning for my future. I need to do more scheming. Donald Trump is a schemer. My grandfather was a schemer, as much as an Angus farmer could be but my father rebelled and smoked pot and listend to Skyner, fucking hippies!

I always feel like a thief when I'm in a store and the name of some item is said in that shrill cheap sound reproduction intercom system. I mean half of these places sell Bose or Boston yet use Audiovox or something Japanase like Yamaha or Yamaguchi. The title of the thing in question could be mistaken to reflect the pyschological state of the buyer, in this case it was me and I felt vulnerable, debased. I had come into the store with Hamilton buying power and a boat load of confidence that unquestionable confidance that accompanies cash but somehow I suddenly knew what serfs felt like when they couldn't even make into the safety of the outer bailey, always exposed to knights ready to take action to impress the ladies of the court. This is off the subject but how did we go from courtly love full of all kinds of rules and formalities to "love my niggaz, where's my bitches," in just a half century? I predict in 50 years we will be highly sophisticated liquid oxygen drinking creatures on our way to another galaxy in a pod and at important meetings discussing the ethanol burning space engines consumption rate and how we are dire straits we'll just be sticking our fingers up our fellow shipmates ass and stoking each others metal genitals in between computer to brain downloads. Then again we might just be eating pizza and watching "leave it to beaver" reruns and wondering why Don Knotts took that pimp role.

So the girl eventually found the price, 13.99, which I thought a steal but she probably thought it a rip because who would pay to read about despair when they can pretty easily go home, eat some cheetos and make their own?

I had three new books by Cioran and the only thing I know about him is that he suffered from insomnia for years and would ride his bicycle to the point of exhaustion just to get some Z's. The book that I'm going to read first was shrink wrapped. When books have condoms I'm a little paranoid to sleep with them but this one is not very thick so it can't do too much damage. The blub on the back says "Cioran can turn a paradise into hell." Definitely not New York Times blurb material. His themes are despair, decay, absurdity, and the irrationality of existence. I would pre order some paxil but I'm pretty confident I could simply raid my neighbors house or go buy a Rick Moody book from the pink springs girl and get my fix.

 

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