“Look at him. Ignoring me.”
Red Metal Stool?
“Standing like that. ‘Hi, I’m Bobby and I don’t need any help standing.’ After all I’ve done for him.”
Don’t do this.
“Could not have made it through Santa Clara without me. Could not. Statement of fact.”
You should be happy for him.
Jesus, Red Metal Stool.
“Maybe, who knows, just maybe, things can happen, and I don’t know: what if someone hit Bobby in the knee with a pipe like that ice skater?”
Don’t even say that! Not funny! Not cool!
“He used to need me.”
“I barely even smell like quinoa farts any more.”
“Someone changed a baby on me yesterday.”
Oh, no. That is not great.
“Ugly baby, too.”
“They’re gonna throw me in the warehouse when tour’s over, man. They’re gonna throw me away.”
No, no, no. You’ll go–
“If you say anything about going to a farm with other stools, I’ll fucking murder you.”
–to a farm…yeah, okay: the future looks bleak.
“I’m married, y’know.”
I didn’t know that.