You look so wholesome.
“It’s the boots.”
Shouldn’t you clothe yourself?
“Shouldn’t you not tell women what to wear?”
I didn’t mean it that way.
“How did you mean it?”
You’re standing in a sandstorm.
“My outfit is modeled on Bedouin garb.”
“This is what they wear under all the flowing bullshit.”
Wow, didn’t know that. What do you get out of Burning Man?
“What you put into it. And what it puts into you. And what others put into you. One becomes semi-permeable, is my point.”
Your underwear has pockets.
“They’re tactical panties.”
What do you fear?
“That ambition is hollow, and the future dull. The blind curve. And overhead fans you turn on by pulling the little chain; I always thought I might pull the whole ceiling down by accident.”
Is your strength that great?
“No, but workmanship can be that shoddy.”
What’s the 121st greatest Bruce Springsteen song?
“The one about the car and the girl.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Doesn’t have to be bad news for you.”
Is he dead?
“He needs to be buried. Dead? I’m not a doctor. He needs to be buried.”
And then you’ll be my girlfriend?
Let’s bury this chomper.
“Yay! I promise I won’t kill you, too, and toss you next to him in the grave you dig.”
“Nothing. I think you’re handsome.”
“Yes. Get the shovel, baby.”