Maybe you saw it coming. I didn’t.
Which was worse … when Little Stevie called her a fucking cunt, or when he shot her. When she clung to the steering wheel, or when she crawled away. This is why we are loved by men—and why we are despised. The child within Adriana was so heartbreakingly apparent, as it is in so many women.
You are considered mature when you no longer trust, or hope, and if you are like Tony, like Christufuh—Christufuh, she called him—you prove your life by not feeling it. That is the pact, and that is the split. And we allow these people, selves, lives, split right down the middle, to rule. We marry them.
Fine. Just do me a big favor, don’t look up to them. Deal the hand you were given, but for Christ’s sake, don’t for one minute think that the system, the famiglia, the man in charge knows a single god damn thing, compared to you.
The sense, the common sense, the connection. Knowing what life is just pours from our fingertips. The worth of things.
When the child in you is dead, it’s possible to get so much done. Pardon me while I puke, or is it weep. I got nothin’ to say. It was just a rip. A tear in the fabric. Fuckin’ cunts.
link: The Sopranos
