How much some people would hate it, hate me, if they read this, or even heard a rumour of its existence – that someone who could have been writing them an entertaining story of a man with a gun seeking justice was, instead, keeping a diary in which he noticed dust, his hands on his face, commas. Although it’s safely private, I’m still defensive. I don’t want to be hated. I still feel bullied out of certain attitudes. I want to be generally liked, and I think this is a terrible fault. It goes along with another pair of faults: the desire to please and the desire not to displease. I’ve written pages of self-justification, when I should be just like Haters gonna hate hate hate. That may be as wise as wisdom gets, on the issue of being hated. What would I put down here that I don’t, out of fear of what people (who’ll never read it or be told about it) might think? Positive things, I think. Statements that seem self-aggrandizing or conceited. Stuff about desire, sex, fantasies, yearnings. My own hatreds. I suppose, even to myself, I want to come across as better than I am. You’re above that. And so I write from above and outside the figure bending over the desk. No, that’s only occasionally – most of the time I’m fully down with my bad self, and the truth of what I’m trying to say is in the pads of my fingers, the smaller bones of my hand, the lifted weight of my wrist. Perhaps I should go back and cross out anything disembodied. No, I’m not all that self-censoring. I may start an entry with the feeling of being hated, but I usually manage to escape it, shake it off. Otherwise I wouldn’t write the word yearnings or admit to their being a truth of what I’m trying to say. My back really hurts. Leigh has a painful stye – she just bathed it in salty water, and shouted ow! When I asked if she was okay (she’s in the bathroom), she said she thought she’d put in too much salt. She’s having a shower now. Wide splashes.
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