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She's all three

Molly is, to use a George Carlinism, "all three" — stupid, full of shit, and fuckin' nuts.

She has a narrative, to which she has returned both times I've seen her in the last few months. [Note: this was autumn of 2009.]

"You were stalking gearls in the park," she told me the other evening — as she'd asserted at Ryan's the last time I saw her.

I tried to explain to her where she'd gotten that story. Of course, Molly is too stupid to listen to good sense — but I tried.

One day back in 2002, she and myself and Linda, and probably Justin, had taken some exstasy (one of the few times I've used it, and the only time with either of those two women.) We were at the Caislain, a pub that was down by the Parade at that time.

I told Molly a story. I don't remember it, now. I do remember that she laughed and giggled, and I remembered that she said she was "getting some buzz" off me. I'd seen some young women at the park and described . I know, it doesn't seem funny now, but apparently the way I told it was a gas to Molly then.

What she remembers now, and what serves her preferred narrative, is that I was following girls — ergo, stalking.

She's an idiot.

I told her that, at Ryan's, that night. Molly, you're a fucking idiot.

"Your last gearlfriend was sixteen years old," she'd added. "You're a pearv."

She's full of shit.

Molly tells herself stories. She believes what people tell her, without critical analysis. She believes the stories that she's told herself, and proceeds to think that she heard them from somebody else.

She's fuckin' nuts.