10.24

I wonder how many words I've written over my lifetime. I wonder how many unique sentences I've constructed from spit and furor and bile. I wonder if, when you put them all in alphabetical order, they mean anything? I wonder what my Zipf count is for the word "I." What about "me," or "self." What about "her?" Because I figure, if you rolled everything up that I've ever talked about and put a neat bow on it and gave it to your uncle as a present, he would thank you kindly and put the whole organized disaster on a shelf somewhere and donate it to the library in a month. I figure the whole mess is worth less than I think it is. And that's not much.