T-27

Sometimes I’m a little disappointed that more of you don’t ask me who I really am. Not that I would tell you, but I want you to want to know more about Walt Dangerfield than that string of phonemes. And maybe you do, but don’t ask because you figure I won’t tell. Correct! The other thing is that I’m realer this way. You know how many eardrums vibrate to the sounds of my electronically reconstituted voice every day? Do you know? Lots. But you don’t even know if that’s true, because as far as you know you might be the only person in the world listening to me right now. What if you were? We’d be having a personal conversation right now. Intimate, even. Because even when I am talking to a million people, I’m talking only to you. And it hurts me that you don’t want to know who I am, that you’re so satisfied with the Walt Dangerfield who comes into your ears that you don’t want to know about the Walt Dangerfield (not his real name) who eats cream of wheat and roots for the Lakers and walks every day to the deli around the corner because that’s what he’s done every day since way back in the fucking days when you used to go buy print newspapers. Outside. You prefer me not-quite real, the way you prefer yourself mediated and wireless and not quite ever yourself. Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contrafuckingdict myself.