On the way home, you told me you weren't happy with the way I acted over dinner. I snatched your wrist and asked, "Are you, or are you unhappy that I had to act that way?" "Many of these men are, plainly, opportunists", I continued, "and I make the freedoms we hold on to very clear in these cases." You knew, by this point, that I meant to defer my blame to some unspoken certainty, so I spoke with the conviction to preclude myself from acting any other way.
It's true there have been more noble ways I could have handled it, but the night provoked some of my finer tolerances. When matters of privacy and wellbeing are held captive before me, I turn shrewdly relentless. And you were doing this thing, again, where you would get me drunk, provoke me, and purr at the table, relishing in my incoherence. You probably were doing it now, too, to carry it into the night, but for some reason it occurs to me to get belligerent.
Plainly, the truths promoted over dinner are so limited in scope as to be useless for any sort of assurance. We're asking for guarantees for the wellness of the structures they impose, yet there is a uniformity of appeal that the way their systems are exploited are so removed from their control (see: shareholder interests) that they are relieved of any responsibility. This guy shows up in shorts and loafers, first of all, and his wife is asleep before they even sit down. All of them just throw their hands up in the air the entire time and expect us to eat it.
By now, I realized I was on autopilot half-way home, and you were paying questionable attention to the actual words I was saying, giggling when you thought I wasn't looking. The night would have been fine without a post-game, but some things do get the best of us. Where are we headed if not home?
So anyway, that's the story of me losing it over dinner, for those that weren't there to join. It's good that you understand we're running a public service here, because otherwise I'd be giving you the impression that we had a private dinner.