The strangler dodges crafty laissez-faire investigators on channel 38, while on MTV, channel 23- such an odd number, I've always thought- a raisin-like rocker paints his face to cover the wrinkles of time. I wonder if an overdose on free love can cause one to shrivel. Casually, I flip between.
Somewhere in the middle, I stop. I like to watch bits of other shows- my thumb's pauses are enlightening. I peer into the programming as if the television were a series of windows onto others' living rooms and boudoirs, even as some part of me knows that behind the false walls on the sitcom sets hide writers and producers who could not know the truth.
If I were honest with myself, I would see that my sole motive for watching people is to fit their situations to my life. My view of the world is as if through a fish's eye; I try to fit more of the world into one space than is possible. It becomes distorted.
I can't write poetry because I always force the rhymes. If I read my psychology book, I'd never have friends.
I never thought Freud was worth much, but self-medicating with psychoanalysis is free.