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This night was the Night. This night felt different. This night it would happen, had to happen. Just as it had happened before. Just as it would happen again, and again.
I am a very neat monster.
Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn’t seem like a big deal. I’m quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there.
And so Deb is the only person in the world who gives a rusty possum fart whether I live or die. For some reason that I can’t fathom, she actually prefers me to be alive. I think that’s nice, and if I could have feelings at all I would have them for Deb.
Anybody can be charming if they don’t mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don’t have a conscience. I say them.
The Cuban dialect is the despair of the Spanish-speaking world. The whole purpose of Cuban Spanish seems to be to race against an invisible stopwatch and get out as much as possible in three-second bursts without using any consonants.
“It’s like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is. And you already know that and it’s like a game for you.”
The only real question was why he was the only one in a room filled with cops who had the insight to get the fucking creeps from my presence.
He was in full hunting mode, and I was merely tagging along behind like an unwanted little brother.
Another huge new development was going up to improve life for all of us by turning trees and animals into cement and old people from New Jersey.
Really, now: If you can’t get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?
What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of the neighbor’s children?

