Lately, too much time spent wondering why I don't know anybody. I like to come up with all sorts of creative excuses, so tonight's involved my dislike of inconsiderateness and cacocraphy (seeing how so much of the world's population seems to fall victim to at least one if not both of these afflictions). I wonder how many people I've known who have claimed to have as few friends -- Hundreds? Thousands? Well, at least five. I'd always found out later that their concept of friendlessness was a bit more figurative than mine, and I couldn't help feeling tricked and hold it against them. It's only during the lulls that I manage to remind myself that life is not an unpopularity contest.
I read somewhere not too long ago that Samuel Beckett blamed his claustrophobia on having a painfully acute memory of his mother's womb.
Samuel Beckett always cheers me up.