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273 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 14, 2022
I was functionally human. Why, then, had that life always felt like a pastime, just something I was doing while waiting for my other self, the actualized, better version of myself, to come along and make it real?
Inside every person's head is a set of films, each a spool of memories, and one of these reels features the most trivial things a person does over the course of a lifetime, including ordering a ham sandwich from the local market's deli counter years ago and the girl who handed it to you, and I hated that the films in these other people's brains were still running, and that I was in them. The humiliation of being alive, and being seen!
A subterranean longing would pass through me at those moments, a sharp, wrenching desire for wholeness, for the correct way of living. When I saw it up close it didn't seem funny, or lame, or maudlin. It wasn't anything but beautiful. Whenever I witnessed these moments of domestic perfection, the thing that good people were born into, I had an odd feeling that I was floating somewhere beyond myself, in a far corner, watching my heart grasp at the scene like a drowning person inches away from a life jacket, clutching at the water of love, ecstatic and terrified.

People who research anything, who deep-dive anything, understand that solitude is never loneliness when you have your subject. The subject looms before you like a bright city on the horizon, beckoning you forward. And you’re forever living in it, or going toward it.
All in all I wanted to touch the fabrics, to eat the ice cream, to feel the same afternoon sunlight a model kicking up her heels in a seventies-era Sears autumn catalog was selling. The humming safety of a packaged life. I wanted to experience a whole other timeline. Through Three’s Company I would transcend the existence of Bonnie Lincoln. Time itself would no longer be an enemy. The filth of my own life would cease to be a threat.
• After I won the lottery, a lot of strangers showed up to tell me what a piece of trash I was. Then they would ask me for money.
• Love was a sickness. It had poisoned me. People lie when they say misery or loneliness kills; it’s love. Love is the lethal agent. The more you have to live for, the more can be taken away.
• Other people can ruin a dream just by knowing it.
• Three’s Company was a farce, after all. Farce punishes everyone eventually.
I had possessed all of the things that a traditionally good life were conditional upon. I was functionally human. Why, then, had that life always felt like a pastime, just something I was doing while waiting for my other self, the actualized, better version of myself, to come along and make it real?