I come from a tradition, the rules of which include: hydrate or die, sleep is not the enemy, eat or else, you can always add to but never take away from, they can't really hurt you, and pull it together when others are falling out. Over the last few decades, I've done pretty well at observing said rules, and they've saved my life and my sanity. Still, my origins mean I've had occasional run-ins I've thought are too bad with those (particularly medical professionals and cops) whose rules include catch, hold and release; partition (fences make good neighbors); and never let on that you hear voices. An unfortunate friction, and a gap I've always wished I could bridge... Ah, tristesse!
P.S. I admit I've always felt a bit of resentment that neither the DEA, SFPD's vice division, nor other authorities inclined towards shitty, immature behavior ever created false profiles for yours truly on methy hook-up sites for the sake of defamation. I really could have used a little edge to my goody two-shoes reputation. Where's the love, guys?
P.P.S. I never did figure out the point of all those pocket lasers and wide-angle, telescopic shots. Why are you waiting for me to be ready for my close-up?
P.P.P.S. I never did follow up on precisely what emerged when Frankie and company worked me over in order to open the gates of hell a few years back. Let's hope it was nothing more than an exhausted Virgil towing Dante and Beatrix to an ice cream shop downtown.
P.P.P.S. Hey Naomi, sorry about the ROSEMARY'S BABY joke. One shouldn't make that reference to pregnant tweakers.
P.P.P.P.S. Overall, I've got to say my verdict at this point is, "Awful program, Frankie: nobody likes to look at splatter."