"Ismael?" Call me "Yossarian."
Like a bird eating seed, I was over here, oblivious and happy. Like a bored housecat, you dragged me over there, and batted me around to and fro, with your claws.
I couldn't win. Hell, I didn't even want to play. So I offered up an olive branch. You dismissed it like it was covered in thorns and told me to lighten up.
I didn't expect an apology, I just hoped for some sort of acknowledgement that you had offended me. Maybe I should've asked for a platinum-plated Ferrari, which mathematically, I would've stood a better chance of receiving.
So call me "Yossarian." Or call me "Orr." You probably don't know what I'm talking about, because just like the Heller novel, you never bothered to read me.
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