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By Root 368 0

with themselves. If they can actually hit some of the right notes, they are far too smug and impressed, as if one in-tune rendition of “Oh Sherry” has refuted the long-held myth that Beautiful People have no discernible talent other than being beautiful. Hear that? That hot chick is easy on the eyes and the ears! Wow! Isn’t she genius? Aren’t we all? But the self-congratulatory annoyingness is even worse if the singer is horrendous, because the singer is so hyperaware of her horrendous singing. The Beautiful Person, usually of the female variety, doubles over in laughter as she sings, covers her eyes with her hands, and pushes “Don’t watch me!” gestures at the audience, all of which is meant to show that she isn’t just another pretty face—oh, no!—she’s a pretty face who has a sense of humor, who likes to poke fun of herself and her very prettiness….

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

sixty-six

I’m having a bit of a meltdown here.

First things first: I’m a hypocrite ne plus ultra for attending a party at which I would be surrounded by the those I’ve skewered in the past, such as the “wannabe or slumming Williamsturdburgers trying too hard to outdo one another in their kaffiyeh neck scarves, scraggly crusatches, and Jheri-curl mullets.”

I needed you to know that I know that.

I’ve got less than one day left, but I’m not sure if I’m going to make it through this little experiment. It’s not just because my hand is killing me from all this writing, surely suffering from repetitive-use injury. Besides that is the ominous feeling that my hypographic carpal tunnel will be for naught. I’ve dutifully documented all the routines and rituals, conversations and connections that are supposed to imbue life with meaning, and yet I can’t imagine a worthwhile conclusion to all this onanistic scribbling. This seems most obvious right now, as I attempt to present last night’s events.

But I’ve got a history of giving up when things go bad. I’m a quitter. I quit the Girl Scouts when I didn’t sell enough cookies to earn a merit badge for my efforts. I quit playing clarinet when I wasn’t chosen for first chair in seventh-grade orchestra. I quit the cross-country team when I had little hope of rising above twenty-third in the county. I quit writing for the Seagull’s Voice when the adviser had the nerve to try to edit/censor my work. I quit my internship at True magazine when I didn’t want to simulate fellatio in front of the editor in chief. I quit my assignments for Think this week when I finally accepted that they would never lead to gainful employmet.

I quit trying to persuade you to talk to me.

I am determined not to quit this notebook. Even if not one word of it will make a difference.

sixty-seven

Where was I? Oh, yeah.

“Jess!”

Cinthia gestured for me to come closer. DJ BB took one bored look in our direction and slipped away. Cinthia hugged me longer than I expected. I could feel all the room’s eyes on me, trying to figure out who I was, and why Cinthia Wallace was embracing me so.

“So what were you just talking about?” I asked. “Looked intense.”

“The de-deregulation of the lending industry,” she said. “Or reregulation, if you believe in the strategic propaganda powers of positive language.”

I knew Cinthia well enough at this point to suspect that she wasn’t kidding. She really was trying to discuss credit-card reform with someone who enjoys crystal meth colonics.

Dexy grabbed Cinthia’s hand and pumped it up and down. “I’m Dexy! J’s friend! And let me tell you how much I admire your work with the Social Activists!”

Cinthia extracted herself from the handshake and smiled. “Well, thank you…”

“Seriously! Don’t let the tabloids get you down!” Dexy said, now chummy enough with Cinthia to pat her on the shoulder. “What’s wrong with wanting to be remembered as more than a vapid coat hanger with a taste for the booger sugar? Why shouldn’t you do something positive with your money and fame?”

“Thanks,” Cinthia said, taken aback by Dexy’s enthusiasm, as most people are upon first meeting her. “But we’re actually moving