The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Bound to a Tiny Pad - 9/22/04

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Hey there! Wife Stealer here; oh, and let's not forget Would-Be Murderer at Nine. I love all my endearing nicknames. I think they indicate a real fulfilling life. 

The truth is, though, that I might have been a little quick to accept Gwen's story Saturday at face value. Just because it went along with some vague feeling in my gut. Why she would lie, I don't know. But she obviously has. 

To believe that I stabbed some teacher fifteen years ago, then got a mysterious treatment to forget about it from some Private Institute, then went on my merry way again—to believe all that is the first bold step on the path to insanity.

That's a step I’m not quite ready to take.

I won’t take it.

I stayed home from work today because I woke up with a serious ache in both eyes. I could barely see a damn thing. It did get better, but only this evening, really. I spent most of the day in bed, falling back on my mind's eye, playing mp3 lists on the computer. I'm sure there'll be hell to pay tomorrow in the backlog of galleys, but I just don’t have control over when my eyes decide to rebel. 

Gwen called earlier in the evening to check up on me. She hadn't known that I had a sick day today; she's actually called me every day since Saturday. Just brief calls, to see how things were going. As if she's afraid she pushed me over the edge by telling me her story? Or seeing if I still swallow the lie? 

That would depend if she believes her own story or not. Whether she was actively lying to me, or just passing on disinformation from a corrupted corner of her memory. I haven't asked. I try to keep the length of our phone conversations short.

It's not that I wouldn't mind someone to talk to once in a while... just not her. Someone that I could trust, I guess. Times like this, I wish Rence were around. Back when we were growing up, I could always count on being able to talk to him when things got overwhelming or tired or dark. Giving him a call wouldn't be the same as sitting down with him in person.

Down here, who do I have to talk to, really? Dale wouldn't get it. He's a fun guy, but he's... Dale. When he sees a serious conversation coming, he runs the other way. And there's no one else at work. I’m just not close enough with Carrie or Deb. 

Lucy? There are so many reasons why I can't talk to her right now. 

And there ends Mark's Magical Network of Friendship. D.C. can be a grand old time, believe you me, but it’s hard to build real bonds with other people around here. On an informal level, I mean. Over on K Street, of course, you can buy pretty much as many friends as you want.

You know what? As soon as my peepers recover, I want to change that. I want to start up some real hobbies, and some real honest-to-God connections with people around here. I’m going to get out of my shell and become a real popular dude. I’m going to be Mark Huntley 2.0. I can’t live like this… and I shouldn’t!

Well, I don't want to strain my eyes back into disability, so I should wrap this up. I do have some good news to report. I haven't noticed any more followers in the past few days. Whoever Joe Citizen was, he appears to have lost interest. 

I did hear a Police song over the sound system in a restaurant downtown, while I was passing by, but it was "Walking on the Moon." Thank God. I still can't explain away that bizarre little run of you-know-what-song. But maybe the explanation is as mundane as one person starting to sing the song and then others getting inspired to join in. Or maybe it was mere coincidence. Synchronicity, if you will.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 8:37 PM

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