They want Fluffy, but it’s not Fluffy

Merry Christmas, everyone, and I know as you sit there reading this you're feeling the tidings of the holiday spirit trembling deep inside your stomach liver and shriveled genitals and it will radiate throughout your extremities to provide a deep and comforting warmth. This is what we call a "soul," and if you do not feel this effect I have described then surely you do not have one, and the overwhelming joy of the season is wasted on you; you should wear a sign around your neck that brands you a Holiday Leper and the soiled rags that wrap your body should be a sign for the rest of us to stay the fuck away, lest our own souls be poisoned by the gaping void inside of you. Merry Christmas!!!

This is the season to feel the glowing love of your family, or, if you're alone, without family friends or love of your life, then you're lucky--the single-unit family shall not be there to block and distort the much larger gateway to the low-frequency glowing love of civilization as a whole. You can feel the love of the entire world bearing down upon you, crushing you under its mammoth tractor treads.

And this Holiday Season thing IS interesting, even depressing, when you don't hae someone special to share it with, to wrap you in a set of loving arms and insinuating hands--it's kind of like Valentine's Day + Jesus. And it can have strange effects on those who are caught in its bloody wake, and these effects will be evidenced around you--as normal, cheerful homeless people take to incoherent blabbering and even angry shouting, as day-laborers, car salesmen and local government officials engage in slightly criminal behavior, and even young playwright/receptionists who usually possess excellent public demeanor and unparalleled taste and conscientiousness can be found wandering the streets, their eyes contorted with fear as they are unable to stop themselves from ceaslessly muttering random lewd phrases like "oral-anal-intercourse" and "ripe virgin pussy". Yes, the Holiday Season takes its toll on even the strongest members of society. Merry Christmas!

It's really a need for companionship, of any kind, that strikes a chord in us this time of year, and since the human variety isn't often available, many turn to the next best thing: animals. And, in keeping with the traditional Holiday Spirit, a Texas woman has payed a company $50,000 to clone her dead cat, because, as we all know, you can't spell "companionship" without "pain," "panic," "poison," "simp," "siphon," and of course "opinsapo," which is the ancient Hopi word for "cat-cloning." This woman has just taken delivery of the nine-week old living clone of her dead beloved dead cat Nicky, and she claims that the clone, Little Nicky, has "even the same personality," as the very dead original cat, which I'd be willing to guess involves aloofness, apathy, and muted cat-like animosity. But people are weary about this whole cat-cloning Christmas thing, although I don't see why, because didn't God clone himself, in a way? Isn't that what the whole trinity thing is about? People are upset, and some detractors say, that a clone is a just a kind of copy, and bound to be different--IT WILL NOT BE THE SAME AS THE ORIGINAL. "They want Fluffy," warned one Texas A&M researcher, referring to these cloning customers, and their hypothetical cats, "but it's not Fluffy." Well thanks for that observation. Way to ruin Christmas, Mrs. Grinch.

My problem with this whole thing, is that they haven't taken it nearly far enough. Who the fuck wants the cat they already got rid of, all over again? Why not improve the cat? Shit, how are we supposed to improve OURSELVES if we keep having the same pets over and over again? Hmmm?

So, in order to practice what I preach, I have ordered for myself for Christmas a full-grown cloned Polar Bear, with its Evil genes replaced with Sensitivity and Erudition genes. I imagine the result will be something akin to the animated Coca Cola polar bears, without the incestuous undertones--unfortunately, I won't know until just before the New Year, because I wouldn't shell out the extra cash for FedEx shipping.

I have also asked that the Polar Bear be provided with an enhanced grasp of language and communication, so we may have conversations--something I require of my Holiday companion. Our conversation, I imagine, will go something like this:

I'll walk into the room where the Polar Bear lies curled in the corner with a volume of Immanuel Kant's writings that he removed delicately from my bookshelf. When I enter, he sees me, and removes the monocle from his eye.

"Hey, Bear, how's the book?"
"Wraaaaaaaahhhhk"
"Yeah, that's kind of how I felt about it too."
"Fffpphlllmmmmmnn"
"Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?"
He shakes his head, no, but I sense otherwise as he begins to lick the dust off the brim of his top hat.
"Look, Bear, you don't have to lie to me. If you're hungry, I'll make you some fish."
He shrugs his shoulders, and manages a slight smile on his giant bear lips. I take the hint, and make him some fish, which he picks at delicately.
"Bear. Hey. What's goin' on here?"
"Ooorrrrrrrggg?"
"I mean...hey, you're hungry, you don't have to be ashamed around me...I love you. Unconditionally. Just because you're more aware than most bears, doesn't mean you have to try to impress me by denying certain animal urges. Eat the fish. It's okay. Because...you know, I just don't want there to be any kind of hang-ups between us, right?"
"Brrrr."
"Exactly. So go ahead, dig in."
But instead he just turns his nose away and rests it pensively on a paw. He doesn't want the fish anymore. The fish has been endowed with too much meaning.
"Goddammit!" I'm getting frustrated. "I brought you here...look, you're supposed to be my FRIEND, all right? I want us open. I want us honest. No secrets, Bear, you get it?"
"Mmrglbglbrr," and he turns his back on me, his shoulders becoming rippled with tension. He's hiding something from me; despite all my efforts to make him open up. Despite my desire to make him love me.
"Listen, I...I don't know if this is working out..." I'm having trouble containing my tears, but the Bear doesn't care, burrowing his nose deeper in his cashmere sweater. "Why don't you--Bear, why don't you LISTEN?, why do we have to DO this?"
"Raaaaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghaghagh," he bellows, and tries to put a friendly paw on my shoulder, and even lovingly cradle my head in his jaws, but I can't stand his touch; not now, not after all this.
"No, get away. Get...don't touch me. Don't. DON'T."
"Mawwwwwwww."
The Bear is hyper-intelligent, and when he wakes up will understand why I had to give him two tranquilizer darts in the ass. He will see that he wasn't being a good listener. He will see how he failed me as a companion. We'll come to a new understanding; I'll cook him a nice seal steak and fall asleep under the protection of his enlightened gaze.

Wow, just imagining this situation reminds me of all the love in my heart, and feeling it reminds me of the existence--to mention nothing of the great depths--of my own soul. And with that knowledge...well, how can I feel lonely this Christmas as I stare out at the expanse of Christmasy Los Angeles? How can I feel lonely when I've got all this inside of me? I wish I could hug myself, because that's both what I want to give to myself, and receive from myself. I know now that I am both sides of the yin-yang. Alone? No. Complete? Yes.

Merry Christmas!!!!!!!!!

Your Linguistic Significance Is Jacked Into My Friggin' Skull

Hey boys and girls! Today, we're going to talk about one of ALL of our favorite topics! LANGUAGE PHILOSOPHY!

Please don't stop reading already; though this may sound as appealing as falling down in front of Pat Morita or having a nerve conduction study (guess what I'm doing tomorrow!) I promise this will all be worthwhile in the end if you continue with this. I promise you'll think and talk with as much wonderful clarity as I do--and who wouldn't want that? Moses Josh leans back and laughs, but I don't care; and just to show him that he doesn't scare me, I'm going to use his name as an example, even if it does cause some problems that we'll just have to ignore. Fuck him.

Okay, so here we go: we all use language, in some form or other, but although we use it with masturbatory ease there still remains the problem of understanding how it actually works, how language itself is able to communicate everything that it DOES communicate. Now, some people would stop right here, and say that any answer we could come up with would be incomplete because the answer itself must exist in linguistic form, and therefore be self-referential to a point where it invariably misses something, because it cannot see the whole at once, being PART OF THE WHOLE. These people cleary don't know how to have a good time, and we'll forget them, sweep them under the rug like so many toenail clippings and mysterious Kleenexes, and assume for now that there is a way for us to express and communicate to each other how exactly language allows us to express and communicate to each other. Rivited yet? You should be. After all, King Charles II did say, "understanding language is more fun than overdosing on heroin suppositories." And you know what? He was right.

One way to start thinking about this stuff is (Gabe, chime in here) understanding how proper names work, how we know a name means the thing it means, and all the other stuff associated with that. This is, as far as I've been led to understand, a black hole that you could dive into if you wanted to, and I can here your starving voices screaming with excitement, "Andy!, Andy!, tell us about names!" but I'm not going to really, because there's something much more important that I want to get to.

Let's face it, names are all well and good, but how are we supposed to have fun talking about NAMES? (unless of course we start talking about Vera de Vera, to whom I mailed something for my boss last week. MAN, what were HER parents thinking...? They must've been, like..."dude, what should we name her?" And the wife was all, "I don' know, les naime her Lucy or sonteen." And he said..."shit, you know what'd be fuckin' crazy? I mean like really CRAZY? Let's just fuckin' call her Vera." "Hombre, ju loco, thas a ba' idea, porque este nombre esta estupido, pendejo, el idea esta muy susio y yo no puedo comprenderlo que me lo encanta" and he jumped up and said "baby chill! Do you wanna' be like everybody else? Do you wanna' follow the lemmings off the edge of the cliff into the churning sea below? Well I don't, and I know little Vera doesn't either. So go ahead. Jump. Jump if you want to. Or....you can come with us. And walk away, and feel the sunshine on your face. Whaddaya say, honey? Huh? Whaddaya SAY???" And with a tear in her eye, she knew it was meant to be.) So let's move on to something more fun...but there's one more thing we need to understand. We talk about truth with regard to all of this, because it's very important for meaning. We know what something means, because we know whether or not it's true. But let's be clear about this: sentences are not themselves true or false. I could explain why, but trust me, you don't want me to. What ARE true or false (in other words, the things that actually themselves have a positive or negative truth value) are these things called PROPOSITIONS--basically, ideas that are expressed by sentences. THESE are what we're really understanding when we say we understand a sentence. Okay, so now for the good stuff: poetic language.

Look, we've all taken a stab at poetry at one point in our lives; it's nothing to be ashamed of, just like shredding your boss's unopened mail: everybody does it, because it reminds you of who you are. Poetry, as we all know, can tend to go hand in hand with a certain kind of language. Now you all know what I mean...I've thought about why this language works the way it does, and I even once had a triumphant moment--one of my very few in the world of academia--when I had an idea regarding a unresolved debate about the difference between two very well-known and oft-used types of poetic language: similes and metaphors. And I don't mean that the simile has "like" in it and the metaphor doesn't, I mean the REAL difference, shithead, as in, what does one convey that the other doesn't? Or, to take it even farther: IS there a difference? Hyman said, YES! There IS in fact a difference, and that difference lies in the fact that a simile makes a comment about the speaker's observation and comparison of the properties of two objects that are some level objective. If I were to say, "Moses Josh is like a rock," or, "Matt Finegood is like an empty swimming pool," I would be making a comment about Moses Josh's and Matt Finegood's properties (and those of the rock and the empty swimming pool) as observeable BY EVERYONE. Moses Josh is like a rock because he is strong like a rock; Matt Finegood is like an empty swimming pool, because nobody can float on his gentle ripples. These are things observable and experienced by everyone, and it is exactly this fact that I am describing with my simile.

However: if I were to say, "Moses Josh is a rock," or "Matt Finegood is an empty swimming pool," I'm saying something far more personal; that Moses Josh is a rock TO ME, or, to clarify, Moses Josh instills in me the emotions that the abstact notion of a rock does--NOT AN ACTUAL ROCK. When I say "Matt Finegood is an empty swimming pool," I'm thinking of Matt Finegood, and everything he means to me, and then I think of an empty swimming pool, and everything THAT means to me, everything that makes me feel, and know that the two are the same. Cool, huh?

Now, before you start sending me erotic pictures of yourself and stalking me at my home, wanting nothing more than a glimpse of me in the flesh and a garment with which to inhale my otherworldy scent, let me tell you that there's more. Oh yes. See, the problem with this whole thing--what was really hanging everybody up--is that, in order to know what ANY STATEMENT means, you theoretically should know that the PROPOSITION IT CONVEYS HAS A POSITIVE TRUTH VALUE. Shit, that's right. Thruth and meaning go hand in hand, and generally speaking, to know meaning you must perceive truth. The fucked-up thing about these metaphors is, that they always have a NEGATIVE truth value--Matt Finegood is not really an empty swimming pool, Moses Josh certainly isn't a rock, or a freight train, or a staunch Austrian governess, or any of the other things I've said about him--and yet we still understand them. The key to this, I supposed, lies in the fact that the metaphor is expressing emotion. And not just any emotion, but a strong, powerful, breast-beating emotion. And in doing so, they are using this whole truth-value problem to make a comment about the effects of those kinds of emotions. Their negative truth-value and their seemingly contradictory ability to be understood tells us something about the irrationality that these overwhelming emotions instill in us--a disconnect with the very nature of truth--and yet they are perfectly comprehensible, because we all feel them. And part of the way we communicate them the most effectively is through these metaphors, that not only tell of an emotional experience, but also the bewilderment that accompanies that experience. Here we have what appears to be a strange example of something that we thought before was impossible: a sentence that conveyes a false proposition, but communicates true meaning. Well, fuck. If I knew it was gonna' be this kind of party, I'da stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes.

So what do we learn from all this? We CAN express emotion. We can understand the communication of EACH OTHER'S emotions. We, collectively, as human beings, also understand that the experience of strong emotions can lead us to think and act in irrational ways--shit, THE IDEA'S BUILT INTO THE VERY NATURE OF OUR LANGUAGE. We SHOULD NOT FEEL SHAME FOR THE COMPLEX NATURE OF OUR FEELINGS AND RESULTANT SPEECH AND BEHAVIOR.

So why do I still feel bad and embarrased about all that shit I said the other night? And that shit I did last summer? And all that other stuff last year, and the year before? All I was doing was "feeling." All I was doing was being human. Moses Josh shakes his head, but it's all for show. He knows I've gotten to the bottom of something. Even if it is a cold damp well.

The Real You/Me/Everyone

Did you ever think that maybe you're not the person who people think you are?

And what I mean is: have you ever had the feeling that deep down inside you there's this really amazing, special, unique person, waiting to break out, that no one can see or appreciate, but that you just know is there, and someday will explode out of you and startle the world?

Just kidding. If you do feel this way, than you must invariably be even shallower and less interesting than the shallow and uninteresting person you imagine to be your outside representation; you must know that you will NEVER blossom, emerge, or otherwise metamorphose into something at all beyond ordinary, that you're doomed to lead a middling existence of routine waking and sleeping and pleasured electric tooth-brushing, that nothing will radiate from your soul except your own weakness and I will feel nothing but a bleak amusement for your hopeless realization that nobody invited you to their birthday parties or sent you a valentine comprised of disgusting chemical candied cherubim, whose brittle wings will allow them to achieve low-ceilinged heights that, while pathetic in reference to most lower-form angels and forthright human beings, even you will never reach.

Look, I know I'm being a little harsh here, but it's out of love--an ever-brimming VAT of love that seeps out of every pore of my chiseled body, which is why when I sweat during my numerous athletic competitions I smell like the sweetest blossom of a deep Sumatran jungle. The fact of the matter is, it's so easy to feel like there's something yet to happen; that deep inside there's something unbelievable, and man, you may judge me now but one day you'll WISH that you had stopped to shake my hand and tell me, in essence, that my work has been the large corner piece of the jigsaw puzzle of your life, the keystone that gave you the order and guidance you needed to put the rest of the pieces together.

And when a relationship is involved-whoa, SHIT, do you want this to be true. Because no matter what kind of awful failures might ripple through a relationship, I know that I can always count on my future success to reach back through time and retroactively justify any present abominations I may perpetuate as part of a path that must necessarily be traveled, as part of a character that, while reprehensible when viewed at certain moments, as a whole is nothing less than heroic and will inevitably lead me to a never-ending wealth of greatness. See? Why have a single layer of bullshit, or even a cube or sphere of bullshit, when you can have a modular form comprised of bullshit, existing in four-dimensional hyperbolic space? My bullshit can time-travel. My bullshit can defy the theory of relativity. Can yours?

Why I bring all this up, is because it is my initial response to the ten great dating suggestions that the MSN homepage has offered me, reminding me that even a goddamn computer can fuck better than I can-its wiry electrical tendrils and pulsating cyber nodes caressing its partner's gigabreasts with a sensitivity my ten clumsy fingers could never dream of; its melodious binary codes uttering a hypnotic poetry my slobbering mouth could never speak. These dating possibilities are encouraged to allow the participants to REALLY get to know each other, which is something I always thought to be contrary to the purpose of dating, which is to allow someone to view you as the person THEY WANT YOU TO BE, while the real you crouches silently in the wings, waiting for the right moment to emerge and be tragically misunderstood.

But no, the article cautions: be wary of merely taking a date to the movies, because “sitting silently in a theater cuts down on the chance to get to know one another on a deeper level.” Hmmm…maybe these people are really trying to encourage the dating world at large to turn over a new leaf. Of course, I'm skeptical; but maybe I'm wrong. It's often been pointed out to me that I am, and I'm willing to let the webpage guide me. But maybe you can help. What do you think of these helpful suggestions? (I'll be paraphrasing the whole thing, but including particularly valuable quotes.) And by the way: the article is addressed specifically to women, so men, sit back and relax and just wait for one of these to hit you.

--Go to an opera. “If you're concerned about keeping up with the plot, look up the basics of the story online or at the library beforehand,” the article advises. Good advice. Wouldn't want to get to the opera, that YOU suggested, and seem stupid, would you? No, you sure wouldn't, and so the other caveat that goes with this idea is only invite a stupid man on this date with you, so when you're at the opera and his confusion has affected him so much his eyes well up with tears, you can cradle his head reassuringly against your shoulder and say “there, there, let me tell you what's going on,” and from that moment on he will revere you with the devotion normally reserved for mothers, formative-year school teachers, and fantasy role-playing hookers.

--Go to a petting zoo, where you “can feed friendly goats, sheep, and the like, check out cool interactive exhibits, and even pose for a souvenir photo with a harmless snake.” Does this description seem to get a little too specific? I'd try to parody it, but it's already a parody, of sorts. A photo with a “harmless snake”? I guess that's not bad; with a purportedly harmless snake wrapped around your neck, staring into your eyes, somehow smiling at you despite the absence of any lips, the standard fears encountered on a date would probably recede into the background.

--Go eat different courses of a meal at different restaurants, instead of eating all at one restaurant (what they call a “progressive dinner”)

--Go to a baseball game. Simple enough. If tickets are sold out, they recommend you try little league instead, so you can watch angry parents screaming obscenities at little children and be about as turned off as can be from taking part in any kind of romantic coupling.

--Take a class together. “Check the continuing education department at a local college or the Y for classes on everything from cooking to computers.” I'm sure nothing could go wrong with this date. Considering I spent a good majority of my time in school thinking about sex, fiddling uncomfortably with my erection under the desk, I'm sure going back to the classroom under the scrutiny of a woman whom I'm trying to impress would work out great.

--Go hiking. Oh, I really like this one. “Pack up some Power Bars and bottles of water, lace up your sturdiest sneakers or boots, and go for a nature hike,” they advise. A “nature hike.” Hello? Hi, uh…yeah, is, is Gina there? Yeah, hey, what's up, this is Andy. Yeah. Yeah, remember me, we met at the bar last weekend? You didn't think I'd call? Why not? Ha. HA. No, I didn't seem…well, if I…no, or, well I didn't MEAN to, NO, I was TOTALLY interested in you, I was, I was paying lots of attention to what you were saying, please, I'm SO much more attentive than most guys. Ha. Yeah, I had a good time too. I'm not just saying that. So listen, I was calling 'cause…well, I was wondering: would you like to go on a nature hike? Yeah, I was thinking we could get away, and just get outside of the city for a while, and be alone, away from other people, where no one's around to bother us and we could have some privacy. Hello? Hello?

--Go horseback riding. This sounds like a bad idea. “No experience? Not to worry. Just tell the stable staff you're a complete beginner; they'll match you with an especially docile horse and teach you the basics before you set out.” I'm still worried. I'm not getting on a goddamn horse for my first time out with a girl who I am NOT trying to look like a moron in front of, I have enough problems staying upright on my own two feet, and especially docile or not, chances are I'm going off that horse before the day's over, and so in order to prevent myself from standing out and looking completely buffoonish I'd have to make sure that SHE went off the horse too, which would mean sabotaging her saddle, poisoning the horse, or just plain charging her ass, which I could do, you know, but it feels like something that's bound to get messy and in the end best just to avoid altogether.

--Bowling.

--“Join the cultural elite” and go to a museum. And now you get to fight for knowledge. Be careful; this is fertile ground for disagreement. Museums are great, yes, but I have scarce gone to one-and maybe this is just me-with other people, when someone hasn't left the building offended, slighted, or otherwise convinced that someone in the group (me) is a boorish, unidea'd philistine who should be defenestrated from the top floor of the museum. But wait; no. The whole idea of this thing is for people to learn about each other in a deep, real way. Fine. Go ahead. Go to the museum. Pay attention to what you say. See if you can tell the truth.

--Pretend your tourists and do tourist stuff. Although I probably wouldn't do it myself, I can't argue with this one. Just don't forget to remind your date how above it all you really are.

Satisfied? That's right, go out on that date, that real, meaningful interaction between you and someone else who may or may not be special, and learn about the real them, and remember-the version of you they see staring back at them?

That is real. I think.

Oh yeah, you may say, “hey, I was just performing, I was just acting how I should've acted, I just wanted them to like me,” and I certainly can't argue with that, but it's still the real you, the real you performs, the real you just acts how you should act, the real you just wants people to like him or her. The real you is...a coward?

That's okay, though. In fact, things aren't so bad; this way, we can look each other in the eyes, and forgive each other.

I am the H.Y.M.A.N. commander

OH you motherfuckers.

I'll bet you thought I was dead.

But here I am, alive again, after a home computer meltdown and three-four weeks of fleeting complacency and accidental happiness. Did you miss me?

You didn't miss me, of course, because for all practical purposes, "you" no longer exist. Why would you, after a disappearance like that? Sure, I realize that a surefire way to scare off my loving and devoted and endlessly sympathetic audience was to disappear for a while, dashing their dreams of a regular dose of Hyman, but what can I say, mistakes were made. And that's something you're learing about me; that WE'RE learning about EACH OTHER--mistakes will always be made. Moses Josh shakes his head. He knows me too well, and has expected this from day one.

I never finished the Las Vegas thing, it's true...the documents were hopelessly corrupted, my logical, sequential, and ultimately meaningful letters and punctuation marks were irrevocably converted to meaningless boxes and taunting wingdings, and I don't have the heart, I'll admit, to retype the thing from my notes, instead choosing to let it disappear in the e-Ether along with the records of so many other irreplaceable feelings. I'm a quitter. I've always been a quitter, moving assuredly, chin lofted, eyes precocious slits, through stints of guitar, saxaphone, Hap Ki Do (a Korean martial art), tennis, journalism, caligraphy, cobbling, controlled burning, clinical abnormal psychology, community service, subsistence living, and hostage negotiation, always convinced of my inborn talent for each activity (at least until it was shown, after a couple weeks of practice, to be a figment of my imagination) before giving up, all before the ripe age of 14 when my true vocation became clear to me.

But I'm back...oh, and I will not disappoint you.

And there's another thing: I've been gone, because I've been writing other stuff. Plays. Two, to be exact, so good, so relieving to me that I've accomplished something that it's all I can do to keep from rolling up the print copies of the plays and fucking them without mercy. But I'm still at work, aren't I? Yes--for now. But ladies and gentlemen, all those whose eyes are glued to this page: the clock is ticking. For, though I have my good days--even more then usual--my irresponsibilty is bound to take hold sooner or later, especially now that I have something ELSE to spend my time on, and provoke me into putting in my two-weeks notice in order to spend "the bulk of my time" on the production of two plays that will in the end provide me with hardly a month's income (if any at all), an acute developed case of bronchitis-pneumonia-plague, and little or no sexual activity resulting from the merits of my artistic talent and gigantic pulsing brain.

"I am the H.Y.M.A.N. commander," my friend Doran Danoff, the Prince of Delusion, once wrote in an e-mail, writing as me, and so referring to me, but as the writer, also to himself, but I now officially denounce this dualistic interpretation, whether or not the Present King of France Is Bald, and insist that I am the one and only H.Y.M.A.N commander. Doran was joking, of course, using my name as an acronym and subsequent title of a mythical organization, standing preposterously for How You Make Actors Neurotic beasts to bear the burder of your megalomania (took some liberties there with that last one, that's right, since he ommitted the last series of words, opting to acknowledge only the letter N and ignore the following BBBYM (ommitting of course articles and prepositions) which I'm convinced stands for, in its own right, Blease Bring Back Your Musk, in reference to my enticing scent)--but he didn't know how right he is, because in all actuality I really HAVE become the H.Y.M.A.N. commander, achieving a complete and total mastery over the elusive entity that is myself, HYMAN. I command him all the time. He does my will.

Only sometimes he forgets, or just doesn't listen.

But I shall take small steps. Two days ago, I got myself a library card, and checked out a book. And that's good enough for this week. Maybe next week, I'll give up one of a number of habits that I find embarrasing, and have never told my friends about.