“The reason I can’t see you tonight—I wasn’t honest earlier—is that I want to stay home, drink beer and get wasted and watch the Walton’s Christmas special,” which he proceeded to describe, actor by character, on and on. A big cast apparently.
“Are you still there?”
“Well, yes,” I said, looking at the phone, “but I don’t know what to say. I’m quess I’m speechless. The Waltons, huh? (Had I every seen a complete episode?) No, but that’s OK, Do what you want to or need to do.”
“It’s not OK. I’m just going to get wasted and depressed and cry.”
“I don’t suppose you have to watch it.”
“No, I’m just going to get wasted and depressed and cry.”
“I mean, you don’t have to watch it, do you? You have choice in the matter? You have agency.”
“What?”
“Agency, free will, a choice.”
“O, yeah, but I just want to be by myself and get wasted and depressed and cry. This is not good. This is definitely not good and I’m not doing well.”
“OK, call if you want to, but just take things easy, you know, step by step and don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“OK, man, I'll be OK. I’ll see you tomorrow. Pakka”
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