"Now let me get this straight: since you're an overbearing egotistical cretin just feeding off of pussy, which coincidentally landed you knee deep in self-loathing behavior, I am suppose to forgive you?"
"Yeah, well, I was hoping you would hit that ball and then maybe catch it... if you know what I mean, my dear."
Our protagonist really didn't understand anything around him, or actually, no, he did understand everything around him to such an astute level that it completely ruined him and everything that surrounds him. Some kind of perpetual-self-imposed-shit-filled-nightmare if you will. Which was, of course, only exacerbated by his self-medicating and drug-induced ennui.
"No, I don't fuckin' 'know what you mean!' No one really does... that's precisely my point. Your speech is so steeped in bombastic language and abstruse metaphors that no one can actually see past your pitiful life and obvious defense mechanisms -- which really only have the barflies convinced."
"Well, isn't that a bit harsh, my lady. And did you say, 'abstruse'? Isn't that some magniloquent language yourself, my lady?"
"Oh common, Frank. I'm not a dullard like your family and friends down at the Underground Table, I'm not just as... self-aggrandizing as you are. You know just as well as I do that you're constantly up to your neck in doublespeak to just get you out of facing reality head-on. In a word, you're a coward."
Our protagonist rolls over in bed to cover his five o'clock shadow and puppy-esque brown eyes.
"So what do you want then? For me to change; send money to charities, hold car washes in my bikini, adopt a malnourished orphan from a distant tribe in Swaziland? Really, what's all of this shit actually going to solve... is it going to make you feel better if I keep my dong out of everything that winks at me and cut back on the lexicon a bit? Truthfully." He stares deadpan. "I'm sorry if you're upset that you're a bank teller, or should I say a facilitator between money-controlling machines. That actually makes me upset: all of our money, our most precious thing that we kill and start wars over, is completely, and utterly controlled by computers. Dystopia anyone?"
"You know what Frank, you're so conceited and smug that you have actually lost touch with everything but you're beloved Faulkner. But, when push comes to shove, and reality comes back to bite you in the ass, is Faulkner going to sell-out like he did writing for Hollywood and actually comfort you at night and guide you on your writing downfall?"
"He's been known to get me out of a sticky situation on more than one occasion..."
"Well, I hope he is just as good in the sack... because I'm not sharing that godforsaken post-celibate thing -- not after what you did to me..."
Frank rolls out of bed in his black boxer-briefs exposing his quasi-chiseled abs to console Rebecca. Problem is, she's already closing the front door to his condo.
"Fuck."
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