TACTICS IN SUBURBS WITH TANKS
A friend—no, not a friend. Someone...
TACTICS IN SUBURBS WITH TANKS
A friend—no, not a friend. Someone I knew once. He confessed to me that he had someone murdered. Hired a guy. He was serious. He told me if I ever needed to have someone killed, he could arrange it.
He was still angry about what the dead man had done to him. Well, it was not what the dead man did to him. It was what the dead man had done to the woman he married. But the dead man did it before they were married. The dead man did it before he even met his wife. It was impossible to have the dead man killed again and my friend was angry about this. We were not really friends.
He said to me that night: You watch commercials on television all fucking day and you listen to commercial music and watch commercial films and read commercial books and you are not bothered by commercial whaling or advertising for pharmaceuticals. He said: You live in a commercial. He said: Your life is a fucking commercial.
I said: You still hang on to the notion that just because you do not like something it’s bad.
People are not good nor bad. Everyone is good and bad. That is what someone told me. Another someone told me that life gets better when you say what you mean and do what you say. So does your death. You can hire someone for that. Someone with a gun. To honor the true wishes of the founding fathers, gun laws should allow all citizens to own as many muskets as they wish. But only muskets.
The guy I knew reached in his pocket and dropped a bunch of strangely labeled condoms on the table. He said: Found these in the bathroom at a bar last night. He said: Have some. I said: I’m good, thanks. He said: This is gum right? He blew a reservoir-tip bubble. He said: It tastes weird.
When you stop saying the convenient thing. When you know that this is not the way it is but the way it isn’t. When you enjoy the weather. All weather. I enjoy weather. Put the Riunitie on ice.
