My grandma hated me opening her fridge. I mean really hated it. Looking back at it this was odd behaviour. It’s not as if I was a serial opener of fridges after all. Another thing about her was she couldn’t pronounce the word ‘yoghurt’, which she pronounced (inexplicably) as yog-OUT. She was also generous and kind and somewhat combustible. Plus, she did a mean knaidlach soup.
I would like to apologise. Not only for the things I have allegedly done but also the things I will almost certainly be accused of doing in the future.
I am capable of kindness. I really am. But you shouldn’t rely on it.
I have known lots of vainglorious people. Two things strike me about all of them: i) the excess of ego (naturally), and ii) the almost egg-like fragility of that ego. Actually, there is a third lineament: the superficiality of their relationships. Not sure what that makes me, given I have counted not a few vainglorious people as close friends over the years.
In principle, I am not against a solitary existence. In reality, however, I am unable to see it as anything other than the most damning judgement. And if there is one thing that impedes the quality of my life, it is the sense that I have been judged damningly.
I know no one, literally no one, who either writes or pretends to write aphorisms. This does not deter me in the slightest. In fact, it makes me think I am onto something.
Masculinity is like an oversized hand-me-down, something you grow into if you’re lucky.
I was very taken with Foucault as a younger man. In fact I was what you could probably describe as one of his insufferably smug acolytes. It took me twenty years to unlearn what he taught me, during which time I skirmished repeatedly with people who wouldn’t know an episteme if it bit them on the bottom. These days I have better things to worry about, like whether to upgrade my iPhone or go all inclusive rather than half-board.
