Perfect Paragraph / #2

Two paragraphs from 'Disgrace', by J.M. Coetzee:

He has dinner with his ex-wife Rosalind. They have been apart for eight years; slowly, warily, they are growing to be friends again, of a sort. War veterans. It reassures him that Rosalind still lives nearby: perhaps she feels the same way about him. Someone to count on when the worst arrives: the fall in the bathroom, the blood in the stool.

"That's wonderful, then. I'm sorry, my child, I just find it hard to whip up an interest on the subject. It's admirable, what you do, what she does, but to me animal-welfare people are a bit like Christians of a certain kind. Everyone is so cheerful and well-intentioned that after awhile you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging. Or to kick a cat."

more people watching

A boy and a girl are sitting together at a small round table. His hair is big and all in disarray like a young Einstein. His demeanor seems to be saying that he has no time for her. He is obviously busy and deep in thought, or at least he is trying to appear so. His face is craned over scattered books and papers. He refuses to look up at her. He completely disregards her pleadings. She is desperately trying to gain his attention. She wants to know something. I can see her mouth form the words, “Tell me, please, just tell me!”
She seems to be entirely out of his league—blonde and just plain gorgeous head to foot, so I’m intrigued by his subtle and reserved ability to resist her. She clearly wants him. She is leaning over, revealing everything she has and everything that he could ever want, yet still, he shows no interest whatsoever. His gaze remains fixed on his books.
She lays half of her body over the table. She puts her hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. He seems repulsed. He seems to not know her at all. She tries to kiss his lips but he averts his face and pulls away.
Her body goes limp with defeat. She says, “Fine. Whatever,” and takes a big bite from his sushi platter. She stands up and waits for a sign of recognition that never comes. She looks around the room, embarrassed from her rejection. She puts on her coat and gathers up her things and before leaving him there to be alone and free of her, she leans over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever it is, it causes him to lift his head and watch her walk away through the busy crowd of student bodies.

So,

So, I'm walking aimlessly around UVU because my class is cancelled and I'm looking at everyone walking around and I start wondering why no one else is looking at everyone walking around. Why am I the only person staring at other people? Am I some kind of creep? Must be.
This also happens when I'm in a car. Whenever I'm at a stop light, or whenever I pass people, or whenever people pass me, I always have to look. For some reason I always have to see whoever is in that car. And I'm always impressed with the people that don't have to look. I'm impressed that they can just mind their own business and not give a rats ass who's next to them at the stop light. Cheers to them.

Sometimes

Sometimes I'm like a dog that's sniffing poop and then my nose gets kicked and I go running off all sad that my nose got kicked and I think to myself NO BRYAN! you're not going to go back and sniff that poop but then I do go back and sniff that poop because I can't remember why I'm not sniffing the poop so I go and sniff the poop and I just keep getting my nose kicked and I keep going through this cycle of not knowing why I'm being kicked and not knowing why I keep sniffing poop but one day I'm telling you one day I'm going to snap and I'm just going to go ahead and sniff all of the poop that I want to sniff because it's my life and if I want to sniff poop then by God I'm going to sniff poop and there is nothing that anyone in this world is going to be able to do about it.

nanowrimo—day 4

I hate writing. If I could alter the chemicals in my brain to be addicted/obsessed/passionate with something else, I would. Why do I want to write? Why do I want to write a novel? What's the real reason? Am I writing for others—an audience? Or am I writing for myself—so I can feel important and accepted and fulfilled? Either answer sounds awful. What are my real intentions for putting some nouns and verbs and excessive amounts of articles, et cetera, onto a blank piece of paper? I just don't get it. It intrigues me beyond measure—to write, yet with every word, every sentence, every paragraph—I feel like a conceited, self-gratifying, attention-deprived asshole.

Oh yeah, and I'm dyslexic and I write as slow as a constipated tortoise—therefore, this writing fixation that has been instilled into my soul, drop by drop, must be a result of God's obvious disdain toward my very existence.

In other words— No. NaNoWriMo is not going very well for me.