One can grow very fond of a backboard. I loved to play tennis against board or wall. There was something about the predictability of it that soothed me, the act of communication that was not one, but seemed to promise one. Lilith and I ran into our favorite Uncle in the cemetery today. He said he was "maintaining," but occasionally looked at twitter to see how crazy the world is. "I guess Don's going to sleep through his trial, eh?" said I. Then I decided to try the issues route: I can't vote for Trump because I'm pro-choice, pro-diversity, want a sane supreme court, am for gun control.
"Trump speaks for 80% of America!" he added. People don't like him because he's brash., Uncle said. "I got a text from a friend who's at the trial! Guy running for senate as a Republican here." Clearly, this was good news. "Trump speaks for 80% of America!" he added. People don't like him because he's brash" I asked for the guy's name, the better never to vote for him. Then Uncle starts bashing Biden's family. Can you imagine? The son, the daughter? "Have you read the daughter's diary?" he asked. Oh, the stolen one. "Her father did awful things to her in the shower," he said. By this time, cemetery business was getting busier and Lilith and I needed a walk to get over our walk, so off we went.
I think the wall's been built.
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