Saint of Feint
By Will O'Neill | August 28, 2008
I’ve been a recreational liar for many years now; be it for entertaining fiction, the joy of momentary advantage, or just plain boredom, I’ve always loved to paint myself into corners and wait to get caught. Usually, however, we think of dishonesty positively - you claim that something which is true which is not true, or you say that you know something which you do not.
Recently, however, I’ve discovered the fun of the opposite: Claiming that you do not know things which you do, in fact, know.
And reveling in the disbelief of others.
This started a few weeks ago, when I announced that I was considering dyeing my hair grey since I felt like it was the only hair-related thing that nobody had ever done expressly for the purpose of wanting to do it and thinking maybe they could make it cool. I actually believe that I personally made khakis popular in the late nineties, so this would not be any kind of major feat.
So I’m sitting there with my friend and all of her sisters, and their friends, and they start going on about Taylor Hicks, and how his hair was grey but he was really cool, and how he had beat me to it. Having some background information on how they followed Taylor Hicks around in a van for a few weeks in a foreign country, I knew they would be astonished if I claimed to have no knowledge of who this person was. They would also be annoyed that someone they loved and felt ought to be world famous could be completely unknown to someone.
Of course, it’s a tricky slope, because you have to claim no knowledge of surrounding phenomena, as well - this is also a great time to develop a weird sense of phonics, as if you’re so ignorant of what someone is saying that you are literally hearing them say something else. He was on what? American Ice Hole? Like a fishing show? Are you sure his hair is really grey, or was there just snow in it? And you’re hopelessly infatuated with this guy why, exactly? Is blue-collar really hot with the younger generation now? The Holmes on Homes effect?
And they keep saying “No no no no no no no no no” like you’re really stupid - it’s really fun!
Some people might say I’m a bad person. But they don’t know that for sure!
Oh, and at a party just the other night, I pretended to have no idea who Johnny Cash was. As his music blared over the stereo, and others reminisced about his legacy, I scrunched my face and showed total confusion as to who they were talking about. My ignorance was met with considerable shock by the other attendees, but it wasn’t until the spanish horns in ‘Ring of Fire’ came on that I truly sold it, saying that I probably didn’t know who Johnny Cash was because I don’t follow Latino artists.
This really set it off. People just started yelling stuff.
“His name is Johnny Cash,” someone said. “Does that sound like a Latino last name to you?”
“That doesn’t sound like anybody’s last name,” I replied.
Before the summer concludes, I hope to have someone explain to me what this Facebook craze is all about (I don’t have the internet at home, and those kinds of sites are blocked where I work), tell me who Perez Hilton is (I don’t follow Latino journalists either, unfortunately) and learn more about this Nintendo Weed everybody is so crazy about. I know video games are pretty much for stoners, but isn’t that taking it a bit far? And you jump all over the place with a what? How can a remote control do anything if you don’t even push the buttons on it? Does it even have buttons? Well, still - that’s pretty ridiculous. This all sounds like total bullshit!
And that’s how you bring it full circle: Accuse the other people of lying.
Like yeah - I’m sure there was a real guy whose last name was Cash. Who was his dad, Richie Rich? Stop wasting my time.
Topics: Drunk, The Inexorable March of Time, Wasted Effort | No Comments »
Do Me Like Georgia
By Will O'Neill | August 26, 2008
I am just one man. When I partner with behemoths and forces of nature, I need to know that I can trust them; depend on them. Otherwise, what’s the point? I try to bring a small pocket of uniquely human ingenuity to a joint effort – I navigate, in a sense – and it falls to the Titan to then propel me.
But sometimes those greater forces let you down.
Sometimes, you get done like Georgia.
Georgia, for those of you who don’t know (warning: severe abridging follows), is a former Soviet state which in the past few years has become intensely allied with the West, and the United States in particular. George W. Bush really gassed the shit out of these guys – he promised them a spot in NATO and all sorts of other incentives to, essentially, flip off the Russians and keep the spirit of the cold war alive.
But when Georgia finally acted (and not merely spoke) as a part of the West, the West passed them by.
The West did them.
That’s how you get done like Georgia.
Here is who is doing me like Georgia:
CIRA – I just want to register this .ca domain name. I don’t see what the big problem is. You’re some big hack federal agency. You should be a building somewhere staffed full of Cheeto-eating, pension-suckling, laterally promoted jerk-offs with nothing better to do than fulfill my minor administrative requests. Why can’t you just send me this stupid confirmation letter? Just send it. Do you really think anyone would lie about being a Canadian citizen over the internet, or couldn’t lie if they were really that committed? This isn’t backpacking in Pashtun, CIRA – nobody needs to feel compelled to make up being a part of our generally insignificant globally populace.
The damn confirmation shouldn’t even exist, but if it must exist, then send it. For God’s sake: Send it.
I’m just a small-time freelancer. You are Babylon. Don’t do me like Georgia.
Certain Comedy Club – I’ll cut a minute from my set. I’ll cut it. But Jesus Christ – tell me it’s going to happen. I’m not up here chomping on a cigar doing knock-knock jokes that I can just jump out on at any time. And I’m professional – if you don’t tell me, and I see the red light, I’ll go – but holy shit: What does that minute get cut to make room for? For someone to mumble on about nothing? For a back-to-back bomb squad of bloody sheet and I-wasn’t-even-paying-attention jokes that run three minutes over? Will you punish these people? Will you punish the ones on the better show that I was better than by giving me their shit next time around?
Why are you letting these hooligans tear down the biz?
I’m just a nobody comic who tries to play by the rules and show respect. You are a substantial comedy institution of influence and repute. I want to perform there again, but please: Don’t do me like Georgia.
Anonymous in Washington – Do you think it’s funny to leave me twisting in the wind? I’m sitting at two-and-a-half stars out here. I’ve barely cracked a thousand views. Do you know what it’s like to have Brazilians call you a fucking idiot? And some guy from the Western Sahara insist that you’re just jealous of Olympic glory? And illiterate Americans tell you think you think ‘you’re jokes are funny’, and insist that they are in fact not?
If you couldn’t help me, you could’ve just said so. You could’ve said ‘You’re stupid - what on Earth can I do with this thing?’, and I would have accepted it.
But you said you loved it.
So I just sat, and waited.
And waited.
Now the games are over. What good is it now? There could have been legions of intelligent viewers defending my work and amplifying my internet fame, and now? Nothing.
Nothing good is ever going to happen in my life.
I am just a YouTube author who is not a sixteen-year-old girl who starts out each entry with “Hey guyyyyyyyys.” You are a huge media conglomerate. Don’t do me like Georgia.
I am a crybaby and a fighter.
Dislike and believe in me.
Topics: Uncategorized | 2 Comments »
Heavy Meta
By Will O'Neill | August 26, 2008
Here’s a link to a video of my show from tonight at The Rivoli:
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=41905131880
I have a lot to say about this show, and a lot to just… Say.
I’m not that happy.
And I’m not having a great night.
And I have to go to work tomorrow.
So I’m just going to go to sleep.
I’ll talk about everything soon enough.
Some of y’all are really doing me like Georgia, man. ’Nuff a’y'all, matter fact. I ain’t never had a hat out, and what?
And what?
But I do want to thank everyone who came out to see the show - I really, really do appreciate it. I’m very sorry that it got started even later than it was supposed to. I hope the live sizzle of shocking confessions about my personal life made it all worthwhile…!
Topics: Uncategorized | No Comments »
Lipsticks
By Will O'Neill | August 20, 2008
When I was in aboriginal theatre, we talked a lot about misappropriation of native culture. It got me thinking a lot about other misappropriations, and ways in which all cultures and ideas can get warped around dominant ideologies in pursuit of fun and profit. It’s an interesting way to start considering the world, especially if you’re a part of that dominant ideology (and I am!) and not neccessarily sensitive to such things because you spend all of your time having things come into your consciousness the same way you perceive them anyways.
Starting to think this way has, for me, really ruined this song:
I mean, if you think about it, this (Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl”) is an outrageous misappropriation of lesbianism - you barely have to break the lyrics skin deep to see how they completely distort it as a sexual preference to serve the proclivities, insecurities, biases, perceptual limitations and contradictions of horny straight men.
It’s so bad that it is completely transparent, even to me, and I am totally down with it. Let’s translate:
This was never the way I planned
Not my intention
Translation: Don’t worry bro, she’s totally not a real lesbian. She loves you, you’re her number one.
I got so brave, drink in hand
Lost my discretion
Translation: She’s not culpable for it either, bro. Nothing in this situation is accountable! She totally did like eight shooters, and all of them were named after doing stuff!
It’s not what, I’m used to
Just wanna try you on
I’m curious for you
Caught my attention
Translation: OMG bro remember when Britney Spears put out that perfume ‘curious’? You know what she was curious about LOL girls love to do it so bad they can’t even contain themselves to their actual sexual orientations.
I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chap stick
Translation: A stick of cherry chap stick reminds her of phallus, that’s what she’s really trying to get back to, bro: Your phallus. Totally digging your phallus.
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it
Translation: Bro, maybe you’re feeling emasculated by the fact that your ooman didn’t ask your permission before kissing a girl, but don’t - in her head she’s completely subservient to you, bro.
It felt so wrong
It felt so right
Translation: Taboo things are totally the hottest, aren’t they bro?
Don’t mean I’m in love tonight
Translation: You’re still the one she loves, bro. She might like getting her freak on with other chicks, but she can only really love men. Who could really love anyone but men, bro? Chikka chikka bone patrol.
I kissed a girl and I liked it
I liked it
Translation: Bro, she feels ambiguously about the potency of her positive reaction to this phenomenon, is at once proud and also unsure - nothing like the steadfast, heartfelt nature of your relationship. But goddamn is it HOT, bro.
And so on and so forth. The song goes on like this.
But it’s pure fantasy, and complete projection.
And yet, at the same time, I’m not sure it’s realistic to assume that this kind of misappropriation can be argued out of anyone - the fact that drunk guys want drunk chicks to make out with each other is not rational. Reasonable things can be worked out - non-reasonable things, not so much.
For example, I don’t think a reasonable person in this day and age can make compelling arguments as to why women shouldn’t be able to work, vote, or enjoy any of the social and political privileges afforded to men. They absolutely should. Everyone should, in fact.
So, when art misappropriates in such a fashion that issues of race or religion are exploited, the target - and, hopefully, the destruction - is clear and easy.
And yet, even if you were a straight male who agreed with all that and thought that this song was a horrible misappropriation and a terrible exploitation, that might not affect the animal parts on you that found it compelling anyways.
I mean, don’t get me wrong - I know that we are all in combat against our lower natures all of the time, and that civilization is predicated on this. You can’t attack people just because they make you upset, you can’t steal things just because you want them etc. etc., and yet I don’t feel there is any widespread gravity over this. I don’t think that most people - the criminally ill excluded - feel any real inclination to kill someone who bumps into them on a subway, or smash into somebody’s BMW and drive off in it.
Alternatively, there are otherwise typical, non-stealing and non-murdering people who get dressed up in leather outfits and get off on having the shit kicked out of them, or they hump camels, or get their dongs dizzonged, or they love the Ice Cream Man, or worse…
My point is that sex seems to have a certain kind of persistent, generalized power which other vices do not.
So, even if you convince someone that this kind of misappropriation of lesbianism is wrong, or even if they don’t disagree with you to begin with, you might not functionally dissuade them out of advocating for it through pursuit.
So, really, what’s the point?
I’m not speaking for myself on this, by the way. I’m not really into chicks on chicks. I guess I just feel like they can only sort of do so much, and then what? It’s like they’re just picking random objects to see if they fit. Either that or it’s like - OK, I’ll do this to you, then you do the exact same thing back to me. Then let’s do the same thing at the same time, until we both probably (but not really verifiably) got off. Scene.
Probably interesting to be a part of; kind of repetitive to watch.
Wait, wait, this is the pun - I find it very anticlimactic.
What I’m really saying is that I believe there are aspects of the lesbian experience - as well as many other kinds of experiences - which are intrinsically beyond my reach.
Therefore, I’m not certain that all of us will ever truly get along.
So why fumble offensively through attempts to do so?
If we would just accept that we are all different, and not the same, I think we could live in a brighter tomorrow, and have a sense of humour about it, to boot.
But lesbians will probably always get short-changed on that, because dudes think it is hot. And that is unfortunate, but better just accepted than fought.
For the sake of the aforementioned brighter tomorrow.
And now, let it not be said that I have never used this blog to do something positive.
Topics: Futility, Guilt, Wasted Effort | 1 Comment »
Fake Sadness
By Will O'Neill | August 17, 2008
A strange, unprecedented feeling of restraint has come over me - a piece I wrote a few months ago has been published as of Friday, and yet despite all of the usual pride and desire to point at it and crash across the internet telling people to go look at it, I really can’t this time.
I know that Friday was only two days ago but, in my / your / everybody’s ego, two days is an eternity. You know what I’m saying, what it is to have something you want to talk about.
It’s an editorial issue, really - it was an article with a very fine comic balance that could tilt, very easily, into being really dark, even for me.
It was edited as such.
There was even a final paragraph appended which I don’t recall writing, and while I do see that it sort of wraps the thing up and returns it to its initial argument, it makes the entire thing come off as extraordinarily heavy and, well… Serious.
I have a complicated relationship with earnestness, and believe it to be a concept fraught with contradictions and paradoxes (paradoxii? paradoxa?) - I try to be funny, but not joking; serious, but not seriously.
I’m not the kind of guy who is like “Hey man, don’t mess with my stuff, I’m a writer.”
But, on some issues, I react very seriously. I refuse to be twisted into some Oprah Winfrey confessional. It’s not that it’s embarrassing - it’s that it’s incorrect.
I have problems, just like anyone, but I am not afraid of life. There is an underlying moral courage to my perspective, its cynicism notwithstanding.
Don’t make it like I flinch.
I write for everyone who understands life and participates anyways. I like that.
Fairness up your ass: Joy to the world.
Topics: Confusion, Guilt | No Comments »
People You Might No
By Will O'Neill | August 15, 2008
Dear Facebook,
Another feature of yours which can be eliminated, as far as I am concerned, is the “People You Might Know” functionality.
Don’t get me wrong, Facebook – I am flattered that you think I am well acquainted with all of these hot, nineteen-year-old Tri-Delts. Two or three years ago, some of them might have known me by reputation as funny and / or a jerk. Today, however, I am an elderly ghost at best to your average Deke, nevermind anyone else in the system, and though this might mean fewer tropical vacation photo albums for me to review, it also implies that all is right in the universe.
Sometimes I drunk-add attractive women, particularly if I was drunk the one time I met them (this feels balanced) or if I feel they will understand my story, but outright strangers? Never, no matter how attractive.
That is what other parts of the internet, which go further, are for - not Facebook.
Also, Facebook, you indicate very persistently people to me who I do in fact know – I know them all too well, as a matter of fact. I know that they are wretched swine. I know that they love sending me Zombie Mail and What-up-o-grams. I know that they are people who somebody who I maybe kind of know used to go out with and then they broke up after like two weeks, and if I was forced into any kind of conversation with them I would probably be unable to think of any topic of conversation besides how they got broken-up with in a very short time frame that would have to suggest the possibility that they were Humpty-Dumptied.
Still, Facebook, all of this pales in comparison to the worst part of the People You Might Know tool: The fact that it will de facto show off to people who I have defriended that I have, in fact, defriended them.
A person who I defriended will be sitting at their desktop computer, doing whatever it is that the kind of people I defriend do (Eating mustard out of the jar with a huge piece of masking tape on it with the word ‘Lunch’ written on it in permanent marker?) when they will see “Will O’Neill” pop up in their “People You Might Know” window.
And they’ll say “Why, of course I know Will O’Neill. He is already my friend on Faceb…”
Because they are such people, they will get almost all the way to the end of that sentence before realizing that we are no longer friends on Facebook.
Encapsulated in sheer rage, they will locate and stab me, all the while crying “Nothing to lose! I’ve got nothing to lose!”
Surely they don’t.
So in conclusion, Facebook, if you could take that particular feature and throw it in a fire and serve the interests of human beings instead of the ghoulish rakes who have some sick desire to add everyone they possibly can, and refuses to admit that at this point in Facebook we’ve all reached as far back as we reasonably ought to, it would be appreciated.
Also, my friend Paria would like to say that it is stupid when people use their status updates to talk about every boring, logistical facet of their autofellating existences. I would like to chime in with sympathy on this in general, and point out that there is almost certainly an inverse relationship between doing such things and the necessity of doing it – if you are of the mindset that everyone wants to follow you around on Twitter, and you are not presently working anywhere in Silicon Valley, then it is likely that you in fact have fewer people on average who would actually want to follow you around on the internet in this regard.
Not because you’re not cool or anything – mostly just because you’re crazy.
And maybe not cool.
That’s just me, dropping some social science. She just don’t like it.
Topics: Anger, Disgust | No Comments »
This Is Why I’m Hot
By Will O'Neill | August 13, 2008
Will says:
I just spilled water on my shirt while trying to use the water to cool my face
Will says:
This is almost impossible to describe but basically instead of just drinking the water I would put the whole glass to my face so that it couldn’t leak out, then I pour the water at my face and the water cools it
Will says:
But the plan had flaws
Will says:
So now there is water on my shirt
Will says:
Plus my face wasn’t in dire need of cooling or anything - it was strictly preference
Will says:
So be careful if doing this ever occurs to you
Will says:
Or if it occurs to you as a result of this conversation
Will says:
Not that you’re saying much
Will says:
Oh wait you’re not there
Topics: Shame | No Comments »
Is this a New Coke strategy?
By Will O'Neill | August 12, 2008
Better mobile Internet, you say? Just like the lady on the escalator?
Great to hear.
She really seems to be enjoying it.
One thing, though: We’re underground.
Brilliant.
Topics: Anger | No Comments »
The Olympics!
By Will O'Neill | August 11, 2008
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=g1h741K8YnA
Well, enough of random iPhone posts and academic dissections - back to the grind.
I think this is about as funny as I can be about something which I don’t really understand.
(Sports.)
Hopefully it isn’t too high concept for people who paint themselves and wear viking helmets on the weekends.
I will send news of this video to all of my pro sports associated people, and see what they say.
Topics: Futility, Guilt, The Inexorable March of Time, Wasted Effort | No Comments »
The Highwayman
By Will O'Neill | August 8, 2008
Note: This is the full text of my final monologue from ABS341, Aboriginal Theatre. It may be difficult to understand without context, but essentially it is a response to the assignment of creating something which fulfills the mandate of aboriginal theatre through the lens of the student. As somebody very much disconnected from any strong aboriginal or cultural identity, i tried to examine what spirit might fill the empty space where that history is meant to reside, and what traces of blood memory - however distorted- might manifest, and what the consequences of that are.
The Highwayman
(The Highwayman begins to speak to the audience jovially, and with goodwill. He wears a red scarf. Before beginning to speak, he collects cards from the audience which he has handed out before the presentation, requesting that they fill out their names and addresses.)
Hello! Welcome! Thank you so much for welcoming me here, and making me a part of this community – for you, as an audience of indigenous people in the world today to accept me, an outsider, a person who often feels like he stands alone out there, and who has no roots beyond his own selfish desires, it is truly a honour.
(The Highwayman motions to the screen behind him)
As you can see from the photos behind me, I’d like to talk a little bit about my family, my ancestors – about my beginnings.
About what I come from.
(A cellular phone rings, to the tune of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” – The Highwayman answers)
Yes, hello? Everything is good? Good.
(The Highwayman laughs at something unheard on the other end of the line, and hangs up.)
You guys like my ringtone? You think that’s funny, lady? Yeah?
Give me your purse.
I’m not sure what you think the joke is here. Give me your fucking purse.
(The Highwayman takes her purse, forcefully)
I want your fucking watch, too.
(While counting money from the wallet in her purse) So: A couple of housekeeping issues before I sort of get going: This building has been locked, and I’ve posted men outside of it who have orders to klll you on sight.
On the off-chance that any of you are able to escape these protectors of this holy and sacred space, we’ll go to the address you wrote on this card and kill everyone there. That means that it’ll either be you or your conscience. And if you wrote down an address that doesn’t exist or nothing at all…
(The Highwayman sighs, in frustration.)
Well, I hope you didn’t do that. Because that’s why the cards are covered in a material that took your fingerprints, but that means I have to go my guy upstairs to run them, and he is really fucking with me right now, so do not make me do this. Because, if you do, we will come to wherever you think you can hide and we will kill you and your entire family and God knows what else when I let these fucking plebes off their chains.
I’m sorry; I can’t be responsible for that.
I know I told a lot of you that you didn’t have to fill out the cards, but I was just being polite.
Now, as I was saying – I want to tell you a story about my father.
But first, we should pray.
Dear Heavenly Father: Life is Hell. Your presence, and the afterlife of infinite joy which you have vaguely promised us, is infinitely preferable to another day on this wretched sphere of scarcity and necessary evil. We know that it is your will that everyone here be as miserable as possible, and as your loyal servant I swear to you that I am endeavouring to bring that vision to life. Look now, upon my children, and see the fruit of your womb.
(The Highwayman becomes his children.)
I am the great-grandfather. I came to this country from Europe as an indentured servant. I believe in my bondage. Though I have nothing, I know that agonizing industry might one day win the freedom of those who follow me; turn me from captive into captor. In my suffering, I have come to know that someone will always suffer – no better and no worse that it be someone else. I will find a better place on this broken road.
(The Highwayman transforms.)
I am the grandfather. I am a racist drunk. In my defense, I’m a drunk because I spent 4 years getting shot at, and I’m only racist towards the people who were shooting at me. If I had a piece of advice for the white youth of today and tomorrow, it would be to stay off of my fucking lawn. My dislikes include communists, women, and crybaby faggots. My likes include… Steak.
(The Highwayman transforms.)
I am the father. I’m coming from the sixties and the seventies, man! I’m not feeling that whole ‘white guy’ thing – you know, I know I’m like a white guy, but I’m not a white guy. Those guys are totally, like, Babylon. I’ve got this whole message where I’m like ‘You pigs are all materialistic and I’m getting high. Long as free love is in the air, I’m never selling out. Peace!
My name is Will O’Neill. I am son and grandson, great-grandson and father and grandfather and great-grandfather. The descendant of enough evil and denial to make being good like a vacation.
My inheritance is confusion. I’ve showed up to take my place in a system that wasn’t right to begin with, but at least everyone knew what they were doing.
Now, it feels like everyone knows what they’re doing except for us.
My grandmother says “Meet a nice girl. Go to the ice cream social.”
I say “No ice cream social today, Nona.” – half the time you meet a chick now, she’s got choices in life. Enough money in her pocket to function off of actual attraction, or go with some guy who has more money than I do or a better car or a better condo – and the worst is those assholes who come from money and their stupid hair falls in front of their eyes and they dress like bums and act like they’re broke but one day you realize they’re at the bar every night and they don’t have a fucking job.
And you see them with a, with an acoustic guitar, unnnngghghgh, ‘Hey guys, I just wrote a song about how I feel really bad for minorities.’
I gave a homeless guy five bucks once – I said “You need this more than I do.” You know what he said? He said “You should give it to me, you shirt-and-tie motherfucker.”
But this guy (Does the acoustic guitar motion) he’s the hero, right? He’s the hero, plus he isn’t five bucks out.
(Singing) We’re fighting the good fight!
What good?
What fight?
(Will O’Neill shrouds himself in the red scarf of The Highwayman)
I am the great white man; the white man of all white men – the Highwayman.
Join me or die; your money or your life.
I come and I go, but deep inside all of my people, inside their insecurities and their jealousies and their anger, I sleep, and rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated – I’ll tell you some secrets: All those nouveau riche Chinese we owe all that credit card money to? Fuck ‘em – they’re never getting paid. Everyone who threw us ten troops for the war on terror? Fuck ‘em! People living too far off the equator? Fuck ‘em!
Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em! I break all the rules; I break all the deals.
But you know that.
Shit, everyone knows that - they just try to beat me at my own game.
But not you.
Those cards I gave you, they’re not covered in a chemical that takes your fingerprints. They’re covered in disease. Diseases you have no exposure or resistance to. They don’t affect me - I come from filth.
You’re going to die tonight.
My sons and grandsons, they die slow too – too much boredom, too much covetousness. Every generation knows less and less about how much harder the one before them had it, so they don’t appreciate a goddamn thing.
That’s why I stay with them. That’s why it doesn’t matter when someone like you sits in a corny office putting out newsletters to try to destroy me, saying ‘Damn the man!’
‘Cause in two years you’ll be finished school and looking for a job while you write your novel, in four years you’ll work some corporate gig, but it’s not really you, right? Six years you’ll be too lonely to not get married, eight years your own life will be such a failure that you’ll have kids to try to do something meaningful while you still have time, nine years you’ll find that ‘Damn the Man!’ flyer scanned into a Facebook album and smile fondly – in ten years, you’ll be somebody and somewhere else.
I’ll be right here.
Survival.
What we share, as one aboriginal people to another, is survival.
Except for one thing: You’re going to die tonight.
(The Highwayman flashes a checkmate smile.)
And I’m going to tell everyone that you forgave me.
Topics: Confusion | No Comments »