Sunday, 16 June 2019

Write-In 2019: 'What They Could All Agree On' By Mark Corwin

I’m an asshole. Brought up the very subject, the one I was told not to. And I know it, and here I am—blood up to my elbows, beating the dead horse with a hammer. Staring over my own shoulder. Like my tongue was hijacked. That blundering, blustering fool. No. It’s all you. No one else. And there you go—again. “I disagree” will be written on your tombstone.

What a complete and total asshole! As if he knows anything about it? As if he knew what it was like? ‘I hear you’—but he doesn’t. And he’s always right, always so sure of it. Why doesn’t he just shut up and listen?

I married this asshole? I told him; I warned him. Did he listen? Does he ever listen? I mean, what is this even about? What is it with him? As if every conversation requires the intervention of Captain Cocksure. Cocksure—oh, does that word resonate.


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