I could write books. I could write tomes; thousand pages, small print. I could write volumes with appendices, indexed and cross-referenced made searchable in an electronic document. And what of such efforts? A lot of dead trees, wasted ink and insecure emotional bullshit. Toss the paper, the library shelf full of words, the excess. Get down to brass tacks. Can't write a history of the Roman Empire in one sentence. I'm not that good. But I'll make do with three points:
1) I should have known better.
2) It is my fault and my fault alone. Take some fucking responsibility.
3) Never should have gone to Phoenix.
That's it. Everything else is extraneous.
1) I should have known better.
2) It is my fault and my fault alone. Take some fucking responsibility.
3) Never should have gone to Phoenix.
That's it. Everything else is extraneous.