I can understand why that might be, too. I look like the sort of person for whom commodified sex would be a welcome diversion from thoughts of self-violence. Do you understand what I mean? The certitude of it. It's actually sounding better all the time.
At around three in the morning, we arrived at the hotel and emerged from our cab. We had conceived of several canonically appropriate explanations for some of the oddities present in Episode III, and we were pleased with ourselves for having done so.
As my associates passed through the automatic doors of our temporary residence, a bumper sticker on a parked car caught my eye.
What Would Scooby-Do?
There's a lot wrong with it. At the same time, the statement filled me with a kind of dread. I'd never really considered the full range of canine response.
I looked up to see what sort of person would put that kind of thing on a vehicle where anyone could see it. The woman smiled at me. I couldn't imagine why. Was this an appendage of some PR agency I my path had crossed earlier in the day? She took a meticulously proportioned bite of her Cobb Salad. I could only see it for a moment, but I felt certain that its entire mouth-watering pantheon had been represented.
What are you doing?, she asked.
Going inside this building, I replied.
Do you need some company tonight, babe?
I said that I was probably alright.