film noir

Struggling with the existential question today: what is a blog for? Am I writing to myself or to an audience? How freakin self-aggrandizing is it to imagine that anyone cares about my thoughts -- like I'm the second coming of the Buddha chock-full of enlightenment for the masses. Like the world should hang on my every word.

And what's going to happen if I'm someday outed as myself. Imagine: Dr. E. (see previous post) would know in a heartbeat that he's the ass in the story and would think up some devious revenge. I can see my employer being less than happy with that scenario. Or, what if I gain a following of millions and then use this blog to out my former employers, purveyors of America's most shockingly corrupt residency program cum butcher mill. I might end up in court, defending myself against charges of libel. (I'm not too scared, as the medical records of a lot of hacked-up women would prove my case. But I digress... that's a dark, long-buried tale of rot and human evil, that will not be disinterred tonight.)

I come clean: I just like to hear myself talk. Didn't get enough attention as a young tot. Was told by one too many junior high English teachers that I should think about a career in letters. Can't shake a sneaking suspicion that I'm right about just about everything and the world should shut up and listen.

So it's like this: I'll write any damn thing I want with the full expectation that no one will ever wash up on this tiny island of babble lost in an ocean of endless noise. Any stray travelers who land on my shores are free -- in fact, encouraged -- to leave immediately. But if you find yourself so inclined, you may read my words and gasp at the primal truth and beauty they contain, fall directly in love with me, set candles on an altar in my name, park across my street all night chainsmoking Marlboros while your mad, fevered eyes follow my silhouette as I move through silent rooms, and finally draw your gun and aim through the foyer window and end me with the first blast then yourself with the second. Then, of course, you must slip into death with my name caressed on your tortured lips. Loulou...Loulou...

It's a lucky name to have, in such circumstances. Imagine, if my name were La'queshandra, how hard it would be to gurgle it out before you died.