was there an anti-autobiography clause?

I woke up this morning after dreams of slipping and falling. I don’t remember hearing the coffee-maker grind the beans. I did hear my alarm. I did toss a cat off the bed. I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, peed, didn’t flush, turned on the hot water, undressed, got in the shower, pulled the little plunger thing to make the water go through the showerhead, turned the cold water on just a little, and washed myself. I don’t remember thinking about anything, but if I did, it was probably something like, “The right side of my head misses out a little on the scalp massage because I’m left-handed.” I got out of the shower (after turning the water off), dried myself, and flushed the toilet. I did not comb my hair. I cleaned my ears and enjoyed it maybe a little too much. I applied deodorant and did not think about Alzheimer’s. I put my pajama bottoms back on. I did not shave. I stared at myself in the mirror some, maybe pinched here and there. I looked at the clock and thought perhaps I should get my ass out of the bathroom. I unlocked and opened the bathroom door. At least one cat came in. I walked to my computer and checked the weather. I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I took my pajama bottoms off, put them on the bed, made the bed, walked back around to the dresser, opened the top drawer, took out a pair of boxers, and put them on. I closed the top drawer and opened the second drawer. I took out an undershirt, put it on, and closed the drawer. Just now, I thought about how nice it is to type the word “drawer” because it is typed entirely with the left hand. I picked my pants up off of the floor, and put them on. I opened the closet, picked out a shirt, took it down from the hanger, closed the closet, and put the shirt on. I slid my feet into my flip-flops, and was officially washed and dressed. I did not break for a paragraph. I will not break for a paragraph. I will not break for a paragraph and I will not know what the salient details are. I will ask myself if the details I have listed are salient. I will ask myself if autobiography consists of lists of things done or lists of things thought or both. I will not answer the question. I will ask myself if autobiography can be both boring and well-written. I will ask myself if autobiography can be exciting/interesting/engaging and poorly written. I will ask myself if H would be annoyed by the hyphen I put into “well-written,” and I will answer that question with another question: “Do I care?” I will answer that question. I will answer that question, and I will stop thinking about the answer and the questions leading to it. I will forget the hyphen. I will instead wonder if autobiography consists not of so-called salient details or lists of things done or thought, but rather of minor slippages that allow the reader to glimpse the author’s feelings. I will look at the word “slippages,” and wonder about my use of it. Perhaps it would be a better word if an adjectival friend came to play with it . . . say, “deliberate.” Deliberate slippages. I will think about the love-letter I am going to write later that will consist of nothing but deliberate slippages. “I dreamt about you last night, and I fell out of bed twice. You can pin and mount me like a butterfly. . . .”

Finally, I will wonder how much of the above is true.