Rabbits (Rabbits, #1)

by Terry Miles

Some true stories are easier to accept if you can convince yourself that at least part of them are fictional. This is one of those stories.

The Venn diagram of people interested in Rabbits and in Richard Kelly’s sci-fi thriller from 2001 is essentially just a circle.

I loved the way my mother made popcorn. She called it a delivery system for butter.

She looked at me like I imagined an overworked clandestine government agent might look just as they were about to switch interrogation tactics from asking questions to beating the shit out of their subject with a phone book.

She was smart and funny, and into a lot of the same terminally uncool shit I was.

“Holyfuckingshit!”

I would have loved to have settled the fuck down, but I’d just lost six hours.

“I’m afraid we’re back to who gives a shit.”

Every once in a while I’d get somebody like this, a YouTube comment section complaint in human form, whose only reason for coming was to stir shit up.

“Promise you won’t be mad.” “I promise I’m already mad,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but what do defecating dogs have to do with magical pathways to heaven and hell?”

“Fell off a camel,” he said, as if that was the most mundane way in the world to injure your leg.

“I’m no longer capable of giving half a fuck.”