Maeve Harrigan
Sometimes when you’re close to someone, when you trust them, you can’t see what’s right in front of your nose.
Not even virtually, I’ve been told.
Mother Nature is a heartless, pitiless, unsympathetic, brutal, barbaric bitch who knows no mercy or pardon. She only cares which fucker wins. But yet, you know, everybody loves her. Worships her. It doesn’t matter how much she hurts them. They keep coming back. Even if she breaks their hearts, burns their houses down, kills their babies. They love her to her bones.
Someone run this by…Maia? 
Would you like a little free marriage guidance? You know, men… men are simple creatures, really. They like to think they’re rocks. But, you know, that thing you hold in your hand… not a rock, it’s an egg. It’s fragile, you know? It needs care. But, you know, like an egg, you can use it in all sorts of useful ways, like in a cake or an omelet, or a soufflé, or a carbonara, or, uh, egg drop soup or, um, egg salad. Potato salad with egg. Um, anything with hollandaise sauce. Now, like an egg, it’ll go off, sooner or later. Now, when it does, there is absolutely no point in getting angry. It’s an egg. It’s just doing what eggs do, you know, after a time. So, use it for your needs, keep it safe, out of the fridge, suck its cock from time to time. But don’t feel you have to listen to a fucking word it says, especially when it’s pissed.
On the other hand, pissed and…strapped?
A chain is as strong as its weakest link. It doesn’t need two of them.
Let alone another whole fucking gang of them.
I’ve always liked a good funeral. Free food and drink.
Cynical enough for you?
Maeve Harrigan: You didn’t tell me she was coming.
Harrigan: Oh, my mistake.
Maeve Harrigan: Is that your pet name for her?
Next up: pet names here.
