Tonight I met a guy who told me he would be a better comedian if he didn't make so much money playing internet poker. I loved to hate him instantly; he drunkenly swayed when he talked like an inflatable tube man at a used car lot in slow motion. The tube man bragged he could do whatever he wanted, move to Alaska if it moved him. Of course, he never went to Alaska. I tried to explain that it was his contentment, not wealth, that stood in the way of his artistic life.
Later, he persistently followed me outside, and we were approached by a man with skin lesions selling individually wrapped roses.
"Doesn't anyone believe in romance anymore?" wailed skin lesion man.
"Sorry, man. I'm broke," the tube man lied, avoiding eye contact both out of disgust and an inability to focus his gaze. He rudely dismissed the skin lesion man like a person who was writing a suicide letter would dismiss a birthday clown. Injustice like that should not go unpunished.
"That's not true," I said as I grabbed the rose seller, "this guy just told me that he makes tons of money."