Even at his worst, he was still weird.
His grand scheme sputtered into a forgettable episode.
His betrayal stung her less than he’d hoped.
He brought her home to meet his beagle.
The robbers mask prevented them from seeing Mom.
The bank robber held his own future hostage.
The dogs barked themselves hoarse at the apocalypse.
He would apologize tomorrow, but tomorrow he’d forget.
He won races by cheating (on his wife).
The rockstar longed for anonymity after the murder.
He baked his feelings and ate his heartache.
The strange alien stepped forward, “I am… Steve.”
Eight words is all I’ll need to say…
The fantasy author lived deeply mired in reality
“She’s such a pretty cat.” “Who bites… hard.”
“Stolen cookies don’t equate to Pearl Harbor, Dad.”
“It’s a boy!” “It’s still a diseased rat.”
He swore upon his very living grandmother’s grave.
She spewed chunks, but still won the tournament.
Thus he outlived his friends, family, and usefulness.