This is a little bit about me.
The same every day. The spinach salad at Hale & Hearty with #3, #8, #10 and #14. No dressing. Refuse the bread but take the crackers. I eat it in the store. The roar from my salad is deafening. After a time I notice the man next to me in the maroon sweater is staring at me, trembling with rage. I pause mid-bite. "I do like a salad with crunch," I tell him. The next thing I know the man in the maroon sweater is choking me. Someone pulls him off me and the manager asks if I want to call the police. I tell him no, I just want to take my crunchy salad to go. Sometimes they give me a free salad card.
Barbara? It's me. Look, I heard what happened. Jesus. Oh Barbara, I don't even know what to say. How are you holding up? What am I talking about, holding up, don't even answer that. You must be an absolute mess. I can't believe you even answered the phone. I'd say get a grip, pull yourself together, but we both know that's not happening, not now, not after this. You know how some people say, "Don't worry, one day we'll laugh about this?" Well, don't believe it. Only a sick, twisted, disgusting animal would laugh about something like this. Trust me. This one's going to hurt forever. Remember Danielle? After Tommy died she got Shingles and she was never the same. Is Eddie there? Tim? What about Frankie? Jesus, you're alone?! Oh my god, you're alone. Totally alone. I'm sorry, but those kids of yours are real pieces of shit. Leaving you alone. At a time like this! My Martin would never leave me alone. Not after something like this. Please, please, whatever you do, stay out of the kitchen. No knives. No knives, Barbara. I mean it. Unbelievable. At least you have the cat, what's-its-name, Dumpy, Lumpy. Oh my god, when did Lumpy die? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, when it rains it pours. Do you have a gun? Well don't worry, I'll ask Martin to bring you one this afternoon. What?! Oh Barbara, no. Not for you, for prowlers. The gun's for prowlers, Barbara. You're alone, for god's sake! Just stay put and wait for Martin. And stop answering the phone. Nothing anyone says is going to make this better.
This isn't really surprising if you consider the incident where Ground Control refused to spend the money necessary to rescue Major Tom when he was floating round his tin can far above the moon. Many people, after suffering an economic calamity, become overly cautious with their finances, particularly as they age. I bet he saves paper plates.
Also, I like to oppress people by dressing like Paul Weller. Feels so good!
I apologize for the offensive Gchats that were inadvertently sent to you during last night's Google Hangouts bug. It was not my intention to engage in feathershaming. I regret my insensitive comments. Be bald, be proud.
My God, this was beautiful. Thank you.
On Being Dumb
I love this:
"Dumb is post-smart. Smart is finite, well-trod, formulaic, known. The world runs on smart. It's clearly not working."
Repo Man had a profound and immediate impact on me as a teenager. I saw the movie at a friend's house on a stolen VHS player and knew immediately what I was born to do - repossess cars. At least that's what I thought at the time. My career repossessing cars was brief. From June, 23 to July 2, 1986, I repossessed about 19, 20, maybe 21 cars and even a handful of motorcycles. The job was thrilling, dangerous, exotic. I felt powerful, even righteous. After all, I was correcting a wrong and returning property to its rightful owner, Hinkston Creek, which cut across the southeastern part of the county and opened up into the reservoir. I remember one of the arresting officers asking me why I liked repossessing cars so much.
"What I don't get is why," he asked.
"I just love my job," I replied.
"But you don't work for nobody."
"I guess that's why I love it so much."
Well, this was pretty amazing.
This was really good. Thank you.