Goon Squad' Took About Three

Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen Table Shaking Salt Into The Hairs On My Arm, And A Feeling Shoves Up In Me: It's Finished. Everything Went Past Without Me.

The World Is Full Of Shitheads, Rhea. Don’t Listen To Them—listen To Me. And I Know That Lou Is One Of Those Shitheads. But I Listen.

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?

When Does A Fake Mohawk Become A Real Mohawk? Who Decides? How Do You Know If It's Happened?

A Bit Of Theory As We Settle Down For Lunch: The Waiter's Treatment Of Kitty Is Actually A Kind Of Sandwich, With The Bottom Bread Being The Bored And Slightly Effete Way He Normally Acts With Customers, The Middle Being The Crazed And Abnormal Way He Feels Around This Famous Nineteen-year-old Girl, And The Top Bread Being His Attempt To Contain And Conceal This Alien Middle Layer With Some Mode Of Behavior That At Least Approximates The Bottom Layer Of Boredom And Effeteness That Is His Norm.