Ski doo iron dog


Ski doo iron dog iron iron iron dog iron dog iron dog iron iron doo. I want to go to New York, but I have not been there since I was five years old, and I am going to make sure to make the trip by the time I am 25."

He told her:

"I am going to have a son, and we will name him after you."

She said, "I would like to name him 'Dog.'"

He said, "You are not allowed to do that. It is a name for a dog. The name of our child will be 'Iron Dog'!"

"I'VE BEEN UP," I said to my friend, the psychiatrist, when I came out of the session on the day I mentioned in the last chapter.

"I've been up," he said, as if in answer.

I had not, in fact, been up at all. I had gone back to bed. And now I sat on the edge of it, leaning back on the pillow, with my eyes shut.

"I'm up," I said. "Why don't you answer my questions?"

"I know why you are up," he said.

"I'm not up because I'm up," I said. "I'm up because I'm up. I think I need to be up because I'm down. I'm down because I'm up. Do you understand?"

"Are you in pain?" he said.

"I'm in pain."

"Can I help?"

"You can. But you can't."

"You must stay where you are," he said. "If you can't stay where you are, you won't stay where you are."

"I can stay where I am."

"And if you stay where you are, you can't stay where you are. You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean."

"If you can't stay where you are, you won't stay where you are."

I said nothing.

"You will stay where you are," he said, "because where you are is where you are. And where you are is where you are."

I said nothing.

"You must go to bed," he said.

"I must be up," I said.

I got out of bed. I walked down the corridor. I stood in front of the fire, looking at the flames. I felt, as they say in the movies, that the floor was moving under me.

"I must be up," I said.

THERE WERE SOME moments, in the early days after my wife's death, when I would be on the phone to my father, and he would ask how I was doing and I would lie and tell him that I was fine.

He would say, "I'm just calling to tell you how good it is that you are feeling better."

I would think, "I'm feeling much better."

I would say, "I'm fine. I've been fine all along."

And he would say, "Well, if you can't be a little more honest with me, I don't know how much longer I can keep calling you and talking to you."

Then he would hang up on me.

I would lie back on my bed and I would think, "I'm not fine, I'm not fine, I'm not fine."

I HAD ALWAYS been a good liar. It had come with me from my mother and father, I think. I had been told to lie. I had been told, in effect, to lie to make it better. It had come with me from the place where I was, a place where my mother would lie to make it better. It had come from the people around me, who would lie to make it better, who would lie to themselves to make it better. It had come from all the time that I had been a child and was told, again and again, to lie, or to do this, or to stop doing that. It was always better to lie than to tell the truth, and the lie was always the truth.

And so when my wife died, when I went through all those terrible moments of grief, and those terrible moments of love, and when I found myself in a place where there were no lies anymore, it was as if I had finally taken my lie and thrown it away. I had been a good liar. And I had not lied to myself. And I knew that, with the exception of a few people, I had never lied to anyone else. I had never lied to my family, or to my friends. I had never lied to my father, or to my mother. I had never lied to my wife. And so, suddenly, I knew that I had no more to lie to. I had no more to lie about.

I HAD BEEN HAVING the thought—and the thought had been growing, ever since I began to think about it, ever since I began to realize what I had done—that I was going to have to be a liar. And I knew what that would mean. I knew what that meant.

I knew that my lying to my family, to my friends, was never going to be the real lying. I knew that, when I got to the place where I was, when I was sitting in the chair by the fire, there was no longer going to be any room in my head for a lie, no room for a lie to be told, no room for a lie to be lived.

I was going to have to be a liar, and it was going to have to be a big lie. I was going to have to tell big lies all the time, and I was going to have to believe them, and live by them, and tell them again and again. I was going to have to be a liar, and I was


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