No one gives a fuck about your sentimentality. No one gives a fuck about her sentimentality. No one gives a fuck about his sentimentality. No one gives a fuck about MY sentimentality either. This firmamental truth extends all the way across the chess board. All those things I treasure so dearly and tenaciously as vestiges from the past and as tangible tethers to irreplaceable memories—MY irreplaceable memories, remember, not John Q. Public’s or Jane R. Schmuck’s…..material items that sometimes even now bring tears to my eyes if I happen to stare at them for more than a handful of seconds while subconsciously connecting them to priceless engrams that reside permanently within my skull—do not elicit a similar response from people who did not experience those events firsthand, including my three ethereal daughters along with my trove of distinctly lesser blood relatives. Did I just say “a similar response”? HAH!!!!! Manifold times they elicit NO response, zero response, not even a ghost of a response. Sentimentality’s orbit extends only as far as one’s uniquely personal experiences; those who do not partake in a happening firsthand obviously do not harbor any strong personal feelings toward that occurrence. And, I might ask, why in God’s name should they? They have their own totally peculiar moments to cherish and cling to.
Fred's Soapbox 