I'm sitting around upstairs thinking about a newly-dead old man I hadn't thought about in two years. Isn't it funny how remote tragedy makes one wring out the dregs of significance and personal connection? You want to justify something: that confusing lurch, the slight readjustment on your life's address book. Far removed grief feels almost indulgent. For example, I am remembering this one thing in particular my late former teacher said (to me, about me, of course: my favorite subject.) I had written a weird essay about my blood phobia, and embarrassed at a certain piece of it, within the narrative I'd bounced away from the topic and made a few self-deprecating jokes. He called me out in the middle of class. He said that it's a cheap trick to try to make people laugh at you to cover the exceptionally real parts.
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