GUN: I'm sorry. I would like to see you but it didn't seem like this was the best way to do that.

HEART: Remember I used to pick you up and twirl you around when I hadn't seen you after a whole work-day? I don't know what caused me such stupid joy but it now has to be ignored or outgrown.

Or maybe it has to be killed.

I don't know what part of me felt the need to elevate you and disrupt your equilibrium after being apart from you for a day. I don't know if the urge or notion to instill vertigo upon you is a genetic defect or a mental cancer or maybe I have an extra part in me that Normal People don't have.

I know someone who was born with six fingers on each hand. Kids made fun of him in school. He is, now, a great guy and an even better dad to his kids. They removed the extra fingers from his hands right after he was born. Nothing was wrong with his God-given extra fingers. The eleventh and twelfth finger worked just like the other ten. The extra fingers weren't cancerous nor were they spiteful or mean. They were just extra. And the world - or the Normal People Police - breathed a collective sigh of evolutionary relief when they forced surgery on the newborn. Science and doctors killed the new baby's extra fingers.

GUN: You're a great person with a beautiful heart

HEART: Remember when me and Lionel Ritchie sang "Three Times A Lady" to you between the cash registers and the frozen pies at Safeway in front of two dozen people?

Me neither.

But that is, now, unimportant. What is important now: I want that eleventh finger in my chest to be removed. I don't have the time to outgrow it. I have no patience left over to ignore it. I want that Lionel-Ritchie, so-happy-to-see-you eleventh finger yanked out of my chest.

Now.

So I can kill it dead.