my ass is so bony, it hurts to sit on wood

I got fucking visions, I know it sounds crazy but right here is where I'm going to make my stand. This is it. This is where I draw the line, Obadiah says catching me in the morning hours as I shuffle sleepy down the hall toward the porcelain shit machine.
I stop and stare, listen for a bit then say, well if we're on the subject I need some bars across these windows for security and, not for nothing, I don't want to smell the cigar smoke of my fucking neighbor either (as long as we're dropping F-bombs). He's a hell of a good guy btw (I say it like that B-T-W), but I just don't want to breath anything other than air, coffee or my own god damn farts. This last part I add for emphasis barely containing a grin.
Who Jerold? He's been smoking cigars fifteen years, I don't think I could stop that.
I nod but I see we're not connecting.
I'll get some wood for those windows and we'll fix you right up.
I don't think so, I want something worthwhile, I'll work it out.
I know I can come off as an asshole but.
You are an asshole I add abruptly, that's just the thing.
There are two kinds of people in this world, ones who draw the line and ones who just let it happen. This is where I draw the line, this is it, right here, he says speaking to the ghost of his dead father and the father before that.
Alright, I hear you, and to it I'll add this, it's not going to work. Not this way, not here. I'll watch you come around. I'll watch you work it out. But in case I'm wrong I'll buy the next round. Then I went to shit, which came out burning from the prior night's hot wings. Fuck.
I thought of Buttercup, poor girl, in this nightmare pile of bricks and broken things, fascist crazies, from the best of good places, for a night or two, playing along. The truth is, no one would play along if they had a choice. The truth is that this place is a monstrous end and a damn new beginning (god I pray). That said, I felt for Obadiah, felt on his side, to make a stand, etc. All that horse shit. I felt it was as good as any approach. Maybe it'll go. Maybe.

In the morning Emmy texts - I'm still praying.
Me too - I reply.
For what? I thought. For a strange thought thank God. For worse until it becomes clear.
What becomes clear?
Good point. It.
There is as much 'it' as there is a 'they' dear boy.
There is?
Ha ha, you know better.
I suppose I do. Even though, in the back of my mind, I know I don't.