What are little boys made of? Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, I’ve been told. And little girls? Sugar. Spice. Other things, I’ve been told.
And what are men made of? Puke and shit. Poetry at dawn and free verse at midnight. Obligations and deadlines. Aches you can’t explain. Sometimes the truth, and other times not: depends on the situation, doesn’t it?
You really want to know what men are made of? Their father’s funerals.
One of these days I’m gonna dig you up, you cocksucker, and tell you that you were right about everything. And then I’ll bury you again.