* Esta sección puede tener spoilers *
If I hada nervous breakdown every time something awful happened in the world, I'd be crazier than a shithouse rat.
“Maybe all the strings inside him broke,” she said.
“There was no planning retirement. There was no planning for a career. There was no planning. No time for planning. No time for a future. But then the life spans started getting longer, and people started having more and more future, and so they spent more time thinking about it. About the future. And now life has become the future. Every moment of your life is lived for the future–you go to high school so you can go to college so you can get a good job so you can get a nice house so you can afford to send your kids to college so they can get good job so they can get a nice house so they can afford to send their kids to college.”
“That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people would want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfast cereals based on color instead of taste.”
“My heart is really pounding,” I said.
“That's how you know you're having fun,” Margo said.
“Seriously,” she said. “We bring the fucking rain down on our enemies.”
“Your enemies,” I corrected.
“You see how fake it all is. It's not even hard to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. I mean look at it, Q: look at all those cul-de-sacs, those streets that turn in on themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm.”
Radar looked at me in the rearview mirror, and I looked back at him. “Sometimes,” Radar said to me, “he's so retarded that he becomes kind of brilliant.”
“Dude, I don't want to talk about Lacey's prom shoes. And I'll tell you why: I have this thing that makes me really uninterested in prom shoes. It's called a penis.”
It all seemed so trivial, so embarrasing. It all seemed like paper kids having their paper fun.
This is what I had to do. I had to hear and imagine my way to her map.
And it is only now, when she closes her notebook and places it inside a backpack next to her and then stands up and walks toward us, that I realize that the idea is not only wrong but dangerous. What a treacherous thing it is to believe that a person is more than a person.
“Forever is composed of nows,” she says.
“There's something I have to do,” I say, and she nods very slightly, as if she knows the something, and I kiss her.
