A Leibstandarte Obersturmführer (left) & a medic smoking a cigarette during a break in battle. Normandy, 1944.
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“Hey can u check if that milk went bad?”
*opens fridge*
*milk has leather jacket on smoking a cigarette*
“It’s bad alright”
If I could fuck any celebrity in the world, I’d fuck Steve Buscemi
real sadposting hours
who tf depressed?
Not me I’m turning over a new leaf and doing my best to be positive
Please read or listen to Lotus Sutra and also meditate daily
Thank you for showing me someone cares my brother, I will continue to push on through my mental illness
I will begin reciting the Bushidō tenets to myself and meditate daily over the concepts of Taoism and Wu-Wei
I’m suddenly laughing at the idea of a cliche noir detective story written in the brutally concise style of Hemingway.
A woman walked into my office. She had legs. I noticed her legs. “I have a problem. I need your help,” she said. They always said that. I knew her legs weren’t the problem. I hoped she might want my help with them anyhow.
“Can you pay?” I asked. Of course she could. Her shoes were worth more than my rent. She could pay.
“I can pay,” she said. Her eyes were wet. I wondered if anything else was wet. Probably not. I am not handsome. Not since the war.
She was looking at my scar. Lots of people do. Most look away. Not her. She did not look away. She looked at my scar and I looked at her legs. There were two of them. I liked that about her. I liked that a whole lot.
“Will there be danger?” I asked. There always is. This city bleeds danger, then drinks it right back up again.
“I’m afraid there might be danger,” she said. She had the voice of a beautiful woman. She also had the face and body of a beautiful woman. She was beautiful.
The light from the window was striped. It made stripes on my cigarette smoke. The end of my cigarette crumbled into ash. My marriage had also crumbled into ash.
“I can handle danger,” I said. I patted the butt of my gun. My gun was a Colt. My gun and my scar were all that was left from my time as a soldier. My gun, my scar, and the nightmares. I looked her up and down. “I am good at handling things.”
We had good jokes. Here’s one: An American robot is on the roof for five minutes, then it breaks down. A Japanese robot is on the roof for five minutes- then it breaks down. The Russian robot is on the roof for two hours!
Then a command comes in over the loudspeaker:
“Private Ivanov! In two hours you are welcome to come down and have a cigarette break!”
[laughs]
I made a friend tonight, he didn’t tell me his name, but he was big dude, probably the length of a whole cigarette. I nicknamed him yung goon. Hope he made it inside, it was getting chilly out.
It is an American weakness. The success becomes the sage. Scientists counsel on civil liberty; comedians and actresses lead political rallies; athletes tell us what brand of cigarette to smoke.
It is an American weakness. The success becomes the sage. Scientists counsel on civil liberty; comedians and actresses lead political rallies; athletes tell us what brand of cigarette to smoke.
