I want to be proud. I want it so badly sometimes I think there’s nothing else on this God forsaken planet I truly need. Every other desire pales in comparison. They’re all diminutive and lackluster. Proud of what? It’s hard to explain. It’s complicated and tangled. I wanna be proud of my country. I wanna be proud of my family. The name emblazoned in me like cattle a brand seared it into my flesh.
She was pretty, which meant she was used to getting away with things. I don’t mean murder, not that pretty, but she coasted by life with a personality like a doorknob. What does that even mean? It’s just there, and you use it sometimes and stick stuff in it if you need to? You can move it around and stuff.