The New Yorker.

I got myself there. I know I’m not half the shit my mind enjoys spewing. But who in this day and age is half their own shit. Proliferation of luxury and its sense of entitlement. An idea we were always made for something more. Perhaps in the day of hoops and sticks, depressions and plagues, things were different. Listen to country music — any song about a quaint american life. The music is more than half the shit his mind enjoys spewing. Granted, he isn’t much. But he brags with no chip on his shoulder.


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