Dan fly in from out of town and, okay, it raise up the right amount of emotion.
Days of shiver and solitary detox and Dan, he laugh, he telling lies. He's egocentric, like a snake in the refrigefrator: he's only blind to the self, he monopolizing dinner times and appetizers and small talk. He brags of kicking animals, of pushing children to the ground. I'm sorry not sorry that I just can't relate. He sings soft of his glory and all of the perks of the set, leaves my stomach in tumble... my head swirl and cold stone inside my soul. When you're with Dan there is only Dan.
Dan, viking of tin, given up on killing the pain: his answer is to spread it around. He doesn't believe in medication, in the half-life and the covalent bonding, so he's going to chew you with talk until your ears turn purple with the sickness. He can't decide if he hates you good or needs you by his side. My prediction: he's an addiction waiting to be fed, a brush fire dying for the fuel. He makes his wife recite a character testimonial at gunpoint: 'I am the most caring and considerate man in the world, and I would never hurt my enemies.'
Enemies?
And everything is alright as long as he's done it. Or doing it. Or willing to admit. When you're the smartest man in the room, you've already lost. At least in my book. So we keep our mouth shut while the dippy Down's waitress- all of twelve years old- asks advice on how to use the camera, in a whine apropos of Napa Valley. Some laugh at Dan's outrageousness. Others nod. Me? It takes every ounce of restraint to keep from breaking his fucking jaw.
So dear Dan: you can take your personal jet and you can point it elsewhere, away from here, where I live, where people are strong with the Force & God's love and are left with little patience for those so desperately needy that they must be the center of attention at every given moment. I just don't have time for you. Take to the skyway...
Fly, Dan. Fly.
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