guiltyrich
I have a feeling that my father does business in shame; trades with remorse; lives in misery.
(Lame.) He calls me and I hear "Chopsticks"— but, you see, I'm in piano Grade 2 only, I'm not up to the mark, I'm insufficient, I'm being framed! That isn't me.
(Then,) Then, that pianist is a client. Quaint, right? His deprecation shoved in the closet like a skeleton. Torrid love affair. Side chick side piece sidesteps my every question... What a plight. He has been rather preoccupied, but it's no woman. He'd choose the bear. What self-absorption!
(You’re not making sense.) I love not making sense! I got it from him. It reminds me of him. It's my father. I grieve his living body, his crypt lies empty. Lucky was I to escape that which killed my parents! Guilt comes easy to a mourner, but... (I guess your mourning is pretend.) Yeah, well. I've always tried to feel guilty. It doesn't really sell. I can't do business in guilt. I can't do trade in remorse. I mean, I am broke. Mine is an unsustainable way of life. Sometimes I take another look at my bank account and take another stab at shame. It's easier around his ex-wife.
(Your mother? She must have taught you how to work a job.) (Must've told you how shame will fill your wallet.) Don't get me started on my mother. Her skin is just stapled-together dollar bills. I'll call it. She's cheap. She's guilt. She's a wealthy woman, too.
(So you—) I am the product of guilt and guilt’s broker. (How does that figure?) I've got two figures only, I'm no expert. But hey, who would’ve thought turning guilt into this capitalised joke would’ve nullified it so much sooner?