The suicidal tendencies of my neglected notebook
My notebook wrote this to me recently…
Look, what’s wrong with our relationship? I’m perfect, so it must be you. My pages are clean and inviting. I even have this great pal hanging onto me who’s nib glides across the page with ease. It is a pleasure for him to write on me.
He’s not a cheap tacky biro like some of my other friends have to put up with. Anyway, that’s not the point. You clearly have a problem. Why don’t you use me as much as that damn computer thing? I can see you now, hammering away at those little keys, devoid of life.
The words appear on the screen, but they are dead. They don’t exist. Why do you refuse to share your words with me and let them live in ink and permanence? I don’t know. I think I’m ready to give up. You don’t smoke, but if I ever see you light a match or flick a lighter, I’m going to hurl myself at it, ok?
Just a heads up.
Dad first, etc second. Prefers writing about life instead of facing it. Occupied by unruly Nabokovian irritation & irrepressible Kafkaesque positivity.
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