Tiny finds this an awkward thing to start.
To hold a pen is to be at war.
Oh, Voltaire. A wise bastard you are. I don't know why I think it's even a good idea to go back into the fire, save that Norma brought up a good point in the shop today: writing can be cathardic. I'd get my own little notebook, but why waste the money when I have something free and self-replenishing at my (unfortunate) fingertips. Should at least put something on the bottom so I can use it for its actual devices. Heaven forbid I deviate from form, after all.
Norma's been hinting to me about another fucktard. Name's something ridiculous, like Robert Peregrine or something that sounds like he's in the Witness Protection Program. Even worse: "Just call him Bob, Irma! He's real playful like that." Who the fuck thinks that going by a nickname means the guy's playful? My nutcase of a business partner, I guess. This is what I get for hanging out almost exclusively with the menopausal set, but whatever. I wonder if he'll be even remotely redeeming and start doing Steve Irwin impressions? Maybe. And maybe Norma won't set me up with a guy who's named "Richard" next just so I can cut to the chase and call him a fucking Dick.
Norma's right about something, though: catharsis.
"Is this Roosevelt Island?"
"No, this is Roosevelt Avenue, in Queens."
"What? So it is Roosevelt Island?"
"No, I said it is not Roosevelt Island. This is the Roosevelt Avenue stop. You are in Queens."
"I don't understand, am I on Roosevelt Island?"
"Ma'am, you are in Queens right now, specifically, Roosevelt Avenue. Roosevelt Avenue is not the same as Roosevelt Island. If you want to be at Roosevelt Island, you have to take the train going in the other direction about three stops. Either way, get off the damn train and quit delaying the rest of us."
"Why won't anybody answer my question?"
"You know what? This is Roosevelt Island, we're all wrong. Get off."
"Was that so hard?"
With shit like this, I should start submitting to Overheard in New York.