Mark asks why the guns have stopped. Why no trash talk? Oh, Mark. I think we all know the answer to that. Nobody wants to make you cry like a little girl. That’s why.
Here’s the thing. I’m trying to lose a few pounds, okay? I’m living on caffeine and sugar-free Werther’s Originals right now. And my story has taken a turn for the lousy. And I don’t know how it ends. Or even how it middles. My civility is a currently a thin veneer covering a pulsating mass of pure rage. If I let the top off, there’s no telling what I’ll say or do.
(Finn, you talentless bald troll)
No! I didn’t say that! That was the last cappuccino talking, is all.
(Justus…couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag if you let him trace over the letters…)
Did you hear something? I didn’t.
(Gregory, if you wrote any slower, you’d be J.D. Salinger…)
Um. I should probably stop for the moment. My eyes are bulging. Excuse me, barista? Another mocha. And a shotgun. With whip.
– Matt –