But everyone I know is either shouting or dancing around like wild or beating up one another. Or go out in the cars and race on the streets, trying to see how close you can get to lampposts, playing 'chicken' and 'knock hubcaps.' I guess I'm everything they say I am, all right. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he’s not here. They run us so ragged by the end of the day we can't do anything but go to bed or head for a Fun Park to bully people around, break windowpanes in the Window Smasher place or wreck cars in the Car Wrecker place with the big steel ball. Like Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now. It's a lot of funnels and lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it's wine when it's not. This is the third installment in the series, with the chapters best enjoyed in order: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven. But I don't think it's social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't they just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four more hours of film-teacher. Welcome back to The Weissrat Chronicles, Sam Smith’s tale of dragging an 18tii back to life in off-hours and weekends, when he’s not busy testing new cars for Hagerty.
"Or talking about how strange the world is. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn't it? Social to me means talking to you about things like this." She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. “Why aren't you in school? I see you every day wandering around."
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