There he is: Darius Scarlett, whose pseudonyms, bynames, and appellations will be stricken from the record; only boys half our age can be led down any such primrose path.
What answer would you like? You asked only how I am, and the social contract states one ought to keep to the lighter side of such conversations. (More to the point, Darius, I suspect if there were an answer that was not a non-answer, it is an answer you would not care to hear. It would be an imposition.)
[...] Well.
You know my abhorrence for lies.
And it seems you are, as the kids say, butthurt that I withheld a straight answer from you.
[...]
I'm not well.
[...]
If you repeat that to Rin, I will let them break your nose. They don't know and they don't need to know. I am telling you because I trust you will have the good grace not to treat me as any sort of invalid.
And because you are, my dear Scarlett, butthurt.
Now, the next time a man gives you a non-answer, perhaps you'll let it fucking lie.
As to the subject of the Boyle wedding (populated by Pendletons? Who is she marrying?) I suggest you lock Emma and Lydia in a room together and give odds on which one comes out alive. Do you remember
Esma.
Her name's Esma, that's the one.
Do you remember that summer in, oh, 1995? 1996? That was Lydia, if memory serves, who cracked Esma across the face with a pool cue for some trespass with one of the Pendletons. ('Trespass'. Tried to fuck him on the billiards table in the middle of that wrench of a party you dragged us to.)
[...]
The feral one. Outwardly, seemingly possessed of an intellect rivaled only by that of garden tools. (Not so. A feint, a sleight of mind to catch one unawares.)
Morgan.
Are they there? Don't tell them I said 'hello'. I owe one of them a rather large quantity of illegals, and I'm unsure which. Regardless, you can imagine I'm in no position to supply.
1/2
What answer would you like? You asked only how I am, and the social contract states one ought to keep to the lighter side of such conversations. (More to the point, Darius, I suspect if there were an answer that was not a non-answer, it is an answer you would not care to hear. It would be an imposition.)
[...] Well.
You know my abhorrence for lies.
And it seems you are, as the kids say, butthurt that I withheld a straight answer from you.
[...]
I'm not well.
[...]
If you repeat that to Rin, I will let them break your nose. They don't know and they don't need to know. I am telling you because I trust you will have the good grace not to treat me as any sort of invalid.
And because you are, my dear Scarlett, butthurt.
Now, the next time a man gives you a non-answer, perhaps you'll let it fucking lie.
As to the subject of the Boyle wedding (populated by Pendletons? Who is she marrying?) I suggest you lock Emma and Lydia in a room together and give odds on which one comes out alive. Do you remember
Esma.
Her name's Esma, that's the one.
Do you remember that summer in, oh, 1995? 1996? That was Lydia, if memory serves, who cracked Esma across the face with a pool cue for some trespass with one of the Pendletons. ('Trespass'. Tried to fuck him on the billiards table in the middle of that wrench of a party you dragged us to.)
[...]
The feral one. Outwardly, seemingly possessed of an intellect rivaled only by that of garden tools. (Not so. A feint, a sleight of mind to catch one unawares.)
Morgan.
Are they there? Don't tell them I said 'hello'. I owe one of them a rather large quantity of illegals, and I'm unsure which. Regardless, you can imagine I'm in no position to supply.