Thinking about Dad reminds me that he's dead. I hate the swoop-and-stab sensation in my chest that comes with remembering. Especially when there's a moment you want to share, and you think I should say that to Dad, [...] and then you stop. [...] Because that chair is empty. Dad's dead.
‘Pumpkin Pie. I know you aren’t a top,’ She stands up, looks me up and down and smiles to herself. ‘Anyone can tell you’re a bossy bottom.’
Used to be that socialists were a real political party, and now you can’t even say the word without being told you’re an anti-American far-left fuck. (I mean, I am, but I don’t appreciate the tone.)
The war all over again – that’s exactly what they will have if they do win their complete military victory. [...] And as long as we have big armies and navies, we shall always have wars. The pretty toys have to be used – they can’t be kept for show…
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