192 words about Thief
"Why don't you join a labor union?" "I'm wearing it."
I wear $150 slacks, I wear silk shirts, I wear $800 suits. I suffer the macerating effects of time, I lose things I cannot get back. I hate my job, I bare my teeth at the universe. I own a used car lot on Western Avenue, I conduct business at the Green Mill, Jim Belushi is one of my best friends. Do you know what that does to a person? I speak with a hostile expediency, as if I fail to communicate what I am trying to communicate to you, if you do not fully understand it in the next ten seconds, we are both going to explode. I embody the anxieties of a certain kind of American male who has fallen terminally behind, I clutch at a stale and bloodless happiness that is inaccessible to me, at this age, given the choices that I have made. I am telling you this so that it might change, but I know it won’t. I wear a gold watch, I wear a perfect d-flawless three carat ring, I change cars like other guys change their shoes. I’m a thief! I’ve been in prison, alright?