My friend, depressed, poured cream into her coffee from the little paper
cream-container at the diner.
"It's all shit," she said. "Everything. I should have died the last
time. Why the hell did you come when I called you? You should have let me
die." Then she crumpled the creamer container and flipped it aside.
"Hey," I said, "you have no right. It took twelve billion years to
create that cream-container. Throw yourself away if you want, but that
cream-container belongs to human history. Hell, it belongs to the whole
structure and evolution of the universe. You have a lot of gall to wad up
the universe and toss it aside. I won't stand for it. Every fucking acre
of earth has been muddied with the blood of men fighting for trivial, trashy
reasons, it's true, but as trivial and trashy as they were, they got us
here, to this point in time, to these sets of conditions, these
predicaments, these givens, these dreams, these possibilities. I'll be
damned if I'm going to stand idly by while you trash the course of all
existence as manifest in that cream-container. That cream-container is as
sacred as I am."
"Fuck you," she scowled as she stirred her coffee.
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