For Amia
Day 15 of Nanowrimo (challenge: use the phrase "It was the first time I have met someone who could oscillate so quickly between insecurity and magalomania...."):
“So,” Mazo asked me, “what exactly is wrong?”
The label began to come off in one long peel. I was wondering if I could get the whole thing. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
After another puff on the cigarette, he said, “Bukowski. You only quote Bukowski when something’s wrong. If you want to keep it to yourself, then don’t quote Bukowski around someone who knows all his work.”
I smiled. “’He made some mistakes but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.’”
“I’d like to think so.” He picked up a glass of amber liquid—a tequila on the rocks.
“How can you drink that stuff?”
“I like it. But what I really like is to pretend its scotch. Now that’s something I can’t stomach.” He took another slug. “So now that you’ve unsuccessfully changed the subject…”
I picked up the Red Stripe and brought to my mouth, but put it down without taking a swallow. “How do you know who you are?”
“Are you looking for a little Descartes here?”
“No.” This time I did take a swallow of the beer. “I mean what makes you you?”
“Me. I make me me.”
I drank some more.
Mazo looked at me curiously. “Who do you think you are?”
“That’s just it. I have no fucking idea. I mean, I know who I am. I’m Lisa Friedman, 31 years old, script supervisor extraordinaire. I am the daughter of Helen and Robert Friedman, sister to Jocelyn Friedman. Girlfriend of Gary Smerling. I have fabulous tits, I’m the most organized person I ever met, and if you gave me enough Post-It notes and an Excel spreadsheet, I’m could rule the world with finesse.”
Mazo laughed. “I have never met someone who could oscillate so quickly between insecurity and magalomania like you do.”
“You mean megalomania,” I pointed out.
“No. I mean magalomania. Megalomania is for small potato folks, like Napoleon. You take it to the next magnitude. Hence magalomania.”
“Very fucking clever,” I said. “Did you know that there’s an actual syndrome called Adopted Child’s Syndrome? People with it have issues with authority, an excessive fantasy life, difficulty learning. They are often pathological liars or steal. Running away from home, fire setting, and acting out, often sexually, are also symptoms.”
“So,” Mazo asked me, “what exactly is wrong?”
The label began to come off in one long peel. I was wondering if I could get the whole thing. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
After another puff on the cigarette, he said, “Bukowski. You only quote Bukowski when something’s wrong. If you want to keep it to yourself, then don’t quote Bukowski around someone who knows all his work.”
I smiled. “’He made some mistakes but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.’”
“I’d like to think so.” He picked up a glass of amber liquid—a tequila on the rocks.
“How can you drink that stuff?”
“I like it. But what I really like is to pretend its scotch. Now that’s something I can’t stomach.” He took another slug. “So now that you’ve unsuccessfully changed the subject…”
I picked up the Red Stripe and brought to my mouth, but put it down without taking a swallow. “How do you know who you are?”
“Are you looking for a little Descartes here?”
“No.” This time I did take a swallow of the beer. “I mean what makes you you?”
“Me. I make me me.”
I drank some more.
Mazo looked at me curiously. “Who do you think you are?”
“That’s just it. I have no fucking idea. I mean, I know who I am. I’m Lisa Friedman, 31 years old, script supervisor extraordinaire. I am the daughter of Helen and Robert Friedman, sister to Jocelyn Friedman. Girlfriend of Gary Smerling. I have fabulous tits, I’m the most organized person I ever met, and if you gave me enough Post-It notes and an Excel spreadsheet, I’m could rule the world with finesse.”
Mazo laughed. “I have never met someone who could oscillate so quickly between insecurity and magalomania like you do.”
“You mean megalomania,” I pointed out.
“No. I mean magalomania. Megalomania is for small potato folks, like Napoleon. You take it to the next magnitude. Hence magalomania.”
“Very fucking clever,” I said. “Did you know that there’s an actual syndrome called Adopted Child’s Syndrome? People with it have issues with authority, an excessive fantasy life, difficulty learning. They are often pathological liars or steal. Running away from home, fire setting, and acting out, often sexually, are also symptoms.”
Labels: nanowrimo
2 Comments:
Hey, this is awsome! I did not even notice the spelling error, but you managed to blend it in so well!
AM
I figured it was just a typo but it actually worked out perfectly because someone else (Jennifer with "extuitive") had already established that he made up his own words all the time. Thanks for the line! It was a great trigger.
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