Word to Detective James McNulty, sometimes you gotta be in the right place at the right time. Usually, you're in the wrong place at the right time and catch a bad one (or several), but these things have a way of evening themselves out. With interest. Believe me.
Word to Talk Talk, life is what you make it. Can't escape it. That's a lie of course, because you can escape it at any time if you're bold enough, but why would you want to do that? Every human being on this planet once upon a time won the prestigious honor of LIFE (not the magazine), and it vexes me that any person would want to sacrifice such a blessing, such a miracle.
(I should however mention that, while I'm against abortion, shooting doctors isn't cool, dig?)
It's good to be alive because then you can do stuff. Pardon me for relighting this saying like a cigarette in a windstorm, but that's the maxim I live by; and, later rather than sooner, it is also the one I'll die by. Hopefully with a wry smile and glossy eyes, preferably with some tit in my hand.
I must be honest here, Constant Retard; I am scared of death like...well, once death is your ultimate fear, there's not much to compare it to, is there? I'm scared to death of hornets. I'm scared of death full stop.
I'm 31 years old: not too young, not too old, I suppose. Just right, like Baby Bear's porridge. I'm old enough to not be sentimental, yet young enough to not know any better. The other day I was watching TV late at night and waiting for my blue bombardier's eyes to get heavy when I realized, not for the first time (nor the last, God willing), that whether I live another week or another three, four, or five decades, I don't have much in the way of time. I have an appointment next Wednesday morning with a dentist who in my imaginarium looks like Laurence Olivier, and right now next Wednesday morning feels like an eternity. Ask me how I feel next Tuesday night, however. Life creeps up on you like that. Death is a dentist's appointment that I am forever postponing. Please remember that the next time you call and I don't pick up the phone.
But I will go to that appointment. I will take that endoscopy. I will eat that strawberry jam- and kimchi-tuna blasphemy of a "sandwich." Because that's what life is: a series of obstacles to run past with the promise of living at the other end. Sometimes life tastes like a bacon double cheeseburger, sometimes it tastes like an old battery.
Smiles and cries, right? I, you, he, she, we: we were all in the right place at the right time. All the stars aligned. Human beings should come with a tag that reads, "Congratulations, now be nice and thankful that you're here...
Because you can fucking do stuff."
Yeah. That's what I think about when I watch The Wire.
(By the way, McNulty's "What the fuck did I do?" Omar's "Indeed," Lester Freamon's "...and four months," Clive Davis's "Sheeeit!" and Bunk's "You happy now, bitch?" may seem like simple catchphrases to the layman, but we all know better, right?)