Most of it I don't even understand. But why am I so irritable? Especially when Alice is so good to me?
She keeps the place neat and clean, always putting my things away and washing dishes and scrubbing floors.
I shouldn't have shouted at her the way I did this morning because it made her cry, and I didn't want that to happen.
But she shouldn't have picked up the broken records and the music and the book and put them all neatly into a box.
That made me furious. I don't want anyone to touch any of those things. I want to see them pile up.
I want them to remind me of what I'm leaving behind.
I kicked the box and scattered the stuff all over the floor and told her to leave them just where they were. Foolish. No reason for it.
I guess I got sore because I knew she thought it was silly to keep those things, and she didn't tell me she thought it was silly.
She just pretended it was perfectly normal. She's humoring me.
And when I saw that box I remembered the boy at Warren and the lousy lamp he made
and the way we were all humoring him, pretending he had done something wonderful when he hadn't.
That was what she was doing to me, and I couldn't stand it.
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