How lovely. Six word memoirs.
I know. Me, too.
Had to be a crappy ad gimmick or college drinking game, but it’s not. It’s addictive and sadly beautiful when not slyly sexy or funny or enigmatic. The good kind of enigmatic, not the annoying kind usually meant just to show off.
I’ll never sleep again until I pull this off. And realize I’m depressed by the truth I’ve managed to tell on myself. Here’s a taste (from Ron Rosenbaum’s site, above):
Explained Hitler, Shakespeare. Couldn’t explain self.
But there were so many efforts I admired more, ranging from the humorous:
Maybe you had to be there.
—Roy Blount Jr.
to the meditatively profound (I think):
Melancholy marvel at how everything connects
to the sly and sexy:
Catholic girl. Jersey. It’s all true.
—Mary Elizabeth Williams
to the shamelessly smug:
I always suffered fools fairly well.
to the sadly romantic:
I waste time looking for love
to the rueful:
Left Aruba for Maryland. Pretty dumb.
to the self effacing:
Well, I thought it was funny.