I think I need to wash my hands…or take a shower. I’m crashing with a friend and whenever I let her cat sniff my hand to get her comfortable with me she just reals back like she can’t believe I would force such a smell on her. XP
all I really wanted was for Tucker to speak up and just say ”No, fuck that. All the plans suck. Has anyone thought of maybe just going to Armonia ourselves? Maybe just tell Kimball and that Doyle guy to their faces ‘hey everything you know about this war is a fucking lie’? I really rather we don’t fucking split up, again might I add.”
Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.
He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.