A man can take only so much. Even a phony man like me.
I had become a perfect fake human, saying the stupid and pointless things that humans say to each other all day long.
I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.
But what could I do? Be stupid for a while? I wasn't sure I knew how, even after so many years of careful observation.
I really am guilty, of many somethings, all of them lethal and very enjoyable and technically not quite legal.
Stop the nurse like the monkey.
And what did you do last night, Dexter? Oh, I played with my dolls while a friend chopped up my sister.
I was never more alive than when the Dark Passenger was driving.
I mean, really: what kind of person could possibly dislike me?
I looked around the store and what I saw was not very encouraging. There were rows and rows of violent toys...aisle after aisle of training devices for recreational slaughter. No wonder our world was such a mean and violent place...if we teach children that killing is fun, can we really be surprised if now and then someone is smart enough to learn?
First things first has always been my motto, mostly because it makes absolutely no sense - after all, if first things were second or third, they wouldn't be first things, would they? Still, cliches exist to comfort the feeble minded, not to provide any actual meaning.
I stood up. It was all too much. I could not even meet my own expectations, and to be asked to deal with all theirs too was suffocating.
I know family comes first, but shouldn't that mean after breakfast?
And I was having too much fun to stop now.
I had killed our careful relationship by driving my tongue through its heart and pushing it off a cliff.
I think people understand things different when they get older. It’s not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I’m just understanding things different. Better.
The key to a happy life is to have accomplishments to be proud of and purpose to look forward to, and at the moment I had both. How wonderful it was to be me.
It took me a moment. I blinked, and suddenly it swam into focus and I had to frown very hard to keep myself from giggling out loud like the schoolgirl Deb had accused me of being. Because he had arranged the arms and legs in letters, and the letters spelled out a single small word: BOO. The three torsos were carefully arranged below the BOO in a quarter-circle, making a cute little Halloween smile. What a scamp.
Or was he saying, "Hi! Wanna play?" And I did. Of course I did.
I was good at being charming, one of my very few vanities.
I waved to everybody. Some of them even waved back. They knew me, had seen me go by before, always cheerful, a big hello for everybody. He was such a nice man. Very friendly. I can’t believe he did those horrible things . . .
I think that's nice, and if I could have feelings at all I would have them for Deb.
What do you want a clock for?” “To find out what time it is,” I said. “I think that’s the usual purpose.
Getting yelled at by a furious woman should be treated as a semiformal occasion.
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