It’s been pointed out to me (most notably by my partner (indeed, most things are pointed out to me by her (though, ironically, I seem to take these observations (or are they criticisms? (to be sure, does any suggestion that there is an aspect of ourselves that we’re not aware of amount to, in some way, a critique (and to what extent does ‘critique’ (or, really, any outside force causing us slow down, take inventory of the self (and here, though I must insist I’m really only thinking about myself (as though this has ever, at any point in any of our lives (the act of performing for others, being just that— a performance (and not a sophisticated one, at that (although I guess it’s possible I’m assuming too much about people I’ll never really know (despite the fact that, like my partner seeing me (that is to say, seeing the me that I perform (and I do (even when I’m shut in the house for months on end) perform), which is essentially, me), I am likely very possibly seeing others more clearly than they see themselves) because it’s easier than taking a sober, clear-eyed look at my own self), though this fact renders it no less compelling to its intended audience) that we rehearse, rewrite and tweak over our lifetimes), been in question, or even been terribly hard to discern), I suppose potential parallels to larger, real life events are hard to not acknowledge) and consider the possibility that we have been misguided and/or straight-up wrong) = ‘attack’ ?); an accusation that we don’t know ourselves as well as we think we do?) or do I only understand them as criticisms because they are coming from her, and I’m uneasy at how clearly she sees me?) less seriously when they come from her), notably and forcefully) but by others, as well) that the use of parentheticals is central to my writing style.