Could it be, as you trip over your tongue in eagerness to confess, that waiting til you meet the Boatman was waiting too long?
I'll confess to occasional aggressive driving.
You always pay for cheap whiskey twice.
I am so fucking tired of being tipped a percentage. What the hell does it matter to me if you order three pizzas or one? It's the same address, the same traffic, the same bumbling through the dark peering futilely out of my fogged window because someone didn't turn on their porch light.
Or because some genius put black cast iron numbers against a brown facade. Or because I was given an address that didn't exist in the worst part of town.
Lies. It was all a pack of lies, and they're the type that move too quickly to be outrun.
-love mitch olson
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