Two things.

1. Facebook makes me sad. Every-so-often I get the friend request on Facebook that makes the whole day puddle out into some deep river of nostalgic ache. There's so many people I'm out of touch with and, while that's by and large a good thing, it's still just a bit overwhelming to see the volume of people in and out of our lives and the sad, sticky things we do to delude ourselves into thinking we'll have time or inclination at this late date to glue together our memories into something meaningful.

We are only redeemed one by one and yet we crave the love and adoration of the whole. If there was a god, he'd have to be a prick, making us capable of one thing, but wanting another. Desire itself is some cosmic joke.

2. Speaking of religion and assholes, Jen and I have spent a lot of time talking about the guy by us who builds crosses for people who die in accidents or murders. The linked story actually makes me like the guy. I'm pretty sure I do like the guy. I think he's nuts and I think if I get killed and he puts a cross where it happened someone should burn the fucking thing, but I like him for at least the kamikaze, all or nothing esprit of his memorials. Absolutism, is at the very least, consistent. I guess I'm impressed by single-minded-ness. It's dumb, but disciplined.

Speaking of dumb, This thing was dumb. This article is just a little scary. Note the paintings part.

So I've decided to start making popsicle stick crosses. I'm going to put them up for smaller things, as they are smaller crosses. I think that it's groovy and all to commemorate murder, but I think our lord and saviour would like to be thought of during other miseries.

I ask of you, send me your small miseries, your little aches and 1:64 scale tragedies. Have you been dumped? Tell me where, I'll put you a popsicle cross up. Did your friend forget your anniversary? I got a cross for you. Did that waiter short change you? Now there's a cross at the table.

You and me, we can cover the world in tributes to our misery. Our losses and missed gains, our discomfort memorialized with all the brilliance and sparkle of murders or suicides. Yes, everyone you meet is carrying around loss and pain, but ours is special. My loss is so much more real because it is mine. I deserve crosses. You deserve crosses. Your dead guinee pig. The nickel you swallowed as a kid. The dorm room you lost your virginity in. Crosses everywhere.

Wait'll they see the hospitals I've stayed in.

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