If I were to travel back in time and confront my great-great grandfather the terrorist, what would we say to each other? Remember that in the grandfather paradox, before I kill him, we get into an argument first. Would he defend his motives, tell me some chilling story about the Jawhawker who ruined his life, perhaps enumerate Quantrill's overlooked good qualities? And how might I rebut? Recite "I have a dream?" Sing a few bars of "The KKK Took My Baby Away?" Or maybe I could tell him about the morning in September idealistic young men not unlike himself flew into the city where I live and taught me the meaning of the word crushed.
Also, in what is probably the most inconsiderate, inappropriate, and dare I say French tangent of the day, it is also Peter's (aka the good ex, aka my first love) birthday today.
I've spent far too much time talking about how cool he is in the past; hell, practically the first six months of this blog is pining over him. I found it too difficult to write something about what a great guy he is without making it sound like I was still head over heels with him.
So anyway, if you're in the Indiana area and spy a cutie who you think I might have had lots and lots of hot hot sex with, you should wish him a happy birthday. You could also offer him a blowjob or something; I'm pretty sure he'd politely decline, but it's the thought that counts.