Every now and then I’ll be sitting in a cafe by myself and I'll revisit the concern that maybe I really am sort of retarded and my friends and family have Truman Show-esquely set up my life for me to never find that out. Then I have to think through the implications until I talk myself out of it.
Like, no, I couldn’t be retarded because that would too big a sacrifice for my wife.
Unless she’s also retarded. Maybe we’re both retarded in the same way so that we mutually don’t realize it.
But I’ve had lots of jobs!
Fuck, I’ve never had a real job. Actually at my longest job, at Trader Joe’s, at the height of the responsibilities they gave me there, as a “section leader,” I had little to no more responsibility than did Joel, that retarded Scottish dude who was the coffee section leader.
But wait, I mean, I’ve made rooms full of people laugh before!
But, fuck, I mean I’d laugh too if a retarded person got on stage and started saying all kinds of retarded shit.
It’s probably kind of sad that the thought that reassures me the most is that strangers have definitely flirted with me.. several times.
No, no, I’m not retarded.. surely…
No comments:
Post a Comment