Rectory always sounded to me like a place where you would find a proctologist.

I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.

Nothing else loves me, or ever will. Not even - especially - me. I know what I am and that is not a thing to love.

I think people understand things different when they get older. It’s not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I’m just understanding things different. Better.

And as we should all know by now, anytime you predict failure you have an excellent chance of being right.

Could this be the Apocalypse ?

A man who discovers his pants are on fire tends to have very little time to worry about somebody else's box of matches