You Had Me At Meat Tornado

All planned words, preparation, is pointless, because you can’t pep your breath up in time, if breath’s ever used to woo anybody. I can’t forget Charlotte licking the back of her hand on the shop floor, telling us to test our breath out.

Some people couldn’t give a shit if there are gods or better ways to live or TV shows that change lives or antiperspirants with better smells, more functionality. Some of us are sick, don’t know it, and some will die before they can cut out the bits which stopped working for us, which never worked that well to begin with, if we’re feedback form filling, honest truth (unless there’s money in it) time.

I get you to send me home like a doctor would, get me to wait for your call (like a doctor would), examine the back of my throat (like a doctor might, depending on symptoms). Some things are symptomless.

And my patience runs out on the bus ride and I re-watch every Tom Cruise film I have which, honestly, isn’t enough, isn’t, couldn’t be, and who’d have thought? And when you ring with your decision, scripted answer, declaration, I start, “You had me at…” and I don’t finish. Because you had me at.

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