I feel bad about it, but not really. I mean I kind of feel bad that I don’t feel bad. Or at least not any worse than I do, which is pretty much not. I kind of feel like I should feel bad, but I don’t. I’m just not working up any grief here. I feel a little like a shit for not giving one—a shit, that is—but they really need to find someone else. I really can’t do this any more and I never could do it well. The music stopped years ago and we’re all still dancing grotesquely like rotten zombie marionettes for some long forgotten or never known reason. (Can you say, “Amen?” I thought that you could.)
. . .If you can ignore any of it, doesn’t that kind of mean that you have to ignore all of it?
. . .
I’m tryin' hard and doin' swell, I tell ya! Get off my bleedin' back already
. . .
That seems to have been the end of that particular cheese deposit, which is fine. It just normally takes so much more effort for so much longer to make anything like that happen. Our fortune is more usually the outrageous kind with slings and arrows and such.