And the hideous part is that it's OK. I don't really care. I mean I really don't care. I don't hate you. I don't even dislike you. I just want you to go do your thing and leave me out of it. I used to think that eating Easter dinner by myself at Applebee's was pathetic. Now I think it's glorious. But I prefer Chilli's--if you want to know the truth. Which, of course, you don't. Neither do I. It's just that the truth came and sat on me like an elephant trying to hatch a swallow's egg. And I got used to it. Pretend stuff is like the crumpled McDonald's sack blowing across the yard in a hot summer wind storm. It is. But who cares? I could be incensed, but it'll be gone of its own accord before I can rally the indignation to do anything about it.
And being a good guy--or being any guy--means nothing. There is nothing to mean any more. How many times have I heard that? I suspected that it meant nothing. Now I know, for a fact, that it is patently incapable of meaning even that. Meaninglessness is its own reward. To be devoid of meaning is to mean it all. It's like twelve o'clock midnight. It's all of the hours and none of the hours. In the same place at the same time (pun avariciously intended).
See what I mean? Dear Lord, if you could see what I mean, you'd fucking vanish.
Run away! Run Away!