I am my father’s child. How do I know this? I know this because of lust. There is a woman who lives upstairs from me. Her boyfriend is strong and handsome. Brazillian, he is stereotypically filled with passion. I lust after a part of their relationship. Not her boyfriend though, her power bill.
Nate turns off lights every time he leaves a room. My husband, Doug, leaves a trail of glowing light and roaring sound behind him wherever he goes. I’m not sure he knows that lights and televisions and radios can be turned off. I’ve never seen him do it. Perhaps he thinks that in dousing a lamp or silencing the television he is killing some small living spark that the rest of us are unaware of. If that is true, then my home is an ICU for the unknown lives so ruthlessly snuffed out around the world. Perhaps I am an unknowing genocidal maniac. I couldn’t say. What I know that I am is a cheapskate who would rather light the world with a smile for free than with a three-cents-per-day light bulb.
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