I work alone. I like good thick walls. There are times late at night, my naked and sweating body covered in the dust of dry wall, granite, hot filaments of steel and ceramic fibers, where I reach the ecstasy you only see on the faces of saints in the paintings of the Dutch masters. I don’t fuck around.
If you ask the police—who I work closely with when I am called to a crime scene to soothe the bereaved animal companions of crime victims—they’d call me pathologically aggressive. If you ask the bereaved animals, they’d have the opposite opinion. Both are correct.
I mentioned Chris, earlier? Anyways, Chris and I were in an HR-approved relationship, as sometimes happens among success-oriented young coworkers. We shared a passion for business and an inability to leave the office, for fear of “falling behind the pack” and subsequently being slain
When the neck hairs rise on folks when you walk in the door of the boutique coffee house for a four-dollar coffee there on the corner of fashion and destruction, in which appearance supersedes and systematically kills off interiority, you shouldn’t be that surprised.
On the steamer, I felt the fever of reinvention coming on. The passengers were assembling below deck, the first fibers of the first cocoon just beginning to spin.
That said, f*ck everyone in the Good Samaritan Hospital ICU who called my illusions “jarring” and “unsanitary”. Secondly, f*ck that security guard and his big ten-dollar words like “trespassing” and “drunk and disorderly”.