It's got to get down in the teens before I go from the sweatshirt to the pea coat. Anywhere above thirty forecasts a fifty percent chance of no coat. Don't misunderstand me, I love coats. Concealment and pockets, brother. Plus a little bit extra impact protection. But mostly the pockets. What I can't stand is being slow-roasted by my own body. Of course she does. This is the difference between literature and the deposition. A piece of literature can sit on the shelf for a hundred years and be endlessly parsed and re-parsed; deconstructed, analyzed, resynthesized, consumed again; over and over. Depositions are throw-away things, good only for one moment, one question, one answer, one judgment, and then all parties retire. I am beginning to understand this. Once I gave blood. It was a one-off gaffe. The persuasive argument used to sway me was something along the lines of: Hey, they will give you twenty bucks , and then a minute later: Hey, they also give you a cookie . I don't know if it was the bakery goods, or if I had nothing else to do, but the next thing I know i am at a sixty-degree angle in shitty upholstery getting stabbed for my lifeblood. The little black-and-white nurse is happy with me; my veins are big, easy to find, and bleed real well. I fill up the bag quickly. I feel the blood in my face. Motherfucker . You know, there's times I need to be cool, or need to slide into or out of a situation and the fucking blood never helps. Anger, inebriation, any sort of emotional investment; I can't hide it. I wouldn't be able to run any poker hand higher than three-of-a-kind because the blood is blind and careless. before you know it, I'm lit and glowing. I'm surprised she doesn't get it. She's been thumbing a ride on this runaway wreck for five weeks now. Everything's pedal-to-the-floor followed by brake-to-the-floor. Just last week she was pulling me off the North Riverside...
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