It was fucking awful; we'd all just gone through this dreadful thing. It was 2004. What would come to pass in March of 2012 would've been a loser joke. I mean, if you'd told me about it back then.
I picked up the phone and called Robert. "It's too much," I told him. "I don't even know what to fucking think."
"This is a rough one," he said.
"I don't think I can do it," I said, with a dramatic flourish. I really felt it, though. "Really no reason to carry on with these losers."
"Oh no, you don't," he said. "Guys like you and me have to get each other's backs."
Well Robert, that was eight years ago, and it meant something. Truly. You had my back, I realized, and so I redoubled my efforts to get yours. And now there's no one to cover. The most frustrating thing is, there's no understanding what happened. I'm sure if I was able to talk to you about it, you'd have your typical cerebral explanation. But no, just questions, lots of questions. Endless questions. And no answers. No way to ask the fucking questions. Just the Ides of March, as you wanted it, your last artistic statement. I never had the guts to tell you while you were still here:
I'm not impressed.
