Is it me?
A friend of mine told me to read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" because it could've been my book. I have tortured myself wondering what she meant.

Is it me because the author plays frisbee, loves the way he plays frisbee, will talk endlessly about the way he plays frisbee? Or is it me because he likes streaking or thinks that streaking and public nudity make some sort of statement, not quite sure of the statement, but some statement? It can't be me because of the heartbreak, I've never known that sort of soul-ripping loss. But he could be me because he runs from problems, runs across the country chasing what isn't there.

Did she mean it was me because of the self-absorption? Because I would write a book about me and only me and if I included you in it, you would only be reacting to me or an anecdote for me. Lori says it's ok, and maybe it is, but I don't want you to call me self-absorbed, that's only something I can call myself, and even then only through clenched teeth. Who is she to say something like that about me?

Then again, maybe she just meant that I could write a book, should write a book, with my voice, and even if it was self-serving might sell a few copies, might make somebody laugh or somebody cry. Or maybe she just meant I'd enjoy the book.

I did, so thanks.