On Books & Life ~ Part Three (A Conclusion)

The book combination noted throughout this 3-part entry could probably be used as Exhibit #1 in a competency hearing re:

schizophrenia. 

The shiny bow on this package is

Arguably Essays By Christopher Hitchens.” 

At least 2/3 could have been written in another language, full of history & esoteric literary references.  Let me say it first, I’m not a deep thinker.  I glance.  I peruse.  I skip to the last chapter.

But the essays on VietNam, Agent Orange, North Korea & the Kennedys left my mouth an open invitation to flies.  There are books and then there are BOOKS.  There are authors and then there are THINKERS and DOERS.

Christopher Hitchens left me with a broadened sense of my own egotism and self-obsession, the fantasy that my “problems” are even worthy of the word.  Compared to the big picture I should be giggling and tossing my head with happy abandon.

VietNam now has generations of chidren born so monstrously affected by Agent Orange their pictures will never be printed in American magazines.  He knew this beforehand, the reality was so much worse.  The ground is so saturated with dioxin there is no answer as to when it will end.

THIS while I’m still pissed about my MOMMY for God’s sakes.  (Oh, it’s shameful.)

Satellite photos show an actual line of demarcation between South Korea and North Korea at night, due to the fact that the North Korean government shuts off all electricity when the head bastard deems it’s time all citizens are in bed.

THIS while I’m sitting here so pissed off I could spit over my husband eavesdropping on my phone calls.  If only we’d been having an*l all these years so he’d have room to stick his head up my ass.  I would like to ship him in a box to North Korea.

SEE?!  There I go again.  Me, me, me!  It’s all about me!

It shames me that I had no real idea regarding such conditions but can tell you Beyonce’s daughter was named Blue Ivy AND have memorized most of the words to all the songs in the Broadway show Rent.

Hitchens also included a piece on the way we borrow sorrow from such twisted places.  The uproar over Princess Diana’s death versus Ugandan women tortured for lifetimes.

We boo-hoo about the most ludicrous things.

We are, unfortunately, akin to sheep.  Not even particularly sheep of good stock.

* * * * *

When I was about 3 my aunt knitted me an afghan and filled the rest of the box with small books.

JOY!

This is how I want my son to feel!

So I’m going to leave his adult male counsel to that intellectual author Tucker Max.

I’m going to give him the best gift ever, a mother who doesn’t embarrass or interfere or overreact or preach.

I wish I’d started doing so a very long time ago.  Hopefully it’s never too late.

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