I could just scream. It’s like everybody is against me. I’m scared to death, and — like Forrest’s little friend Jenny — I want to be a bird so that I can fly far, far away from here. I’d rather live in the middle of nowhere, and then maybe I can outrun this big dark cloud hanging over my head.
I really do need to get out of town. The people working against me aren’t any ordinary enemies; they’re my so-called friends. For all I care, they can drop dead and go straight to hell. They’re a bunch of smooth-talking phonies who pretend to pat me on the back so they can stab me again.
“Cast your burden on the Lord,” says the psalmist, “[a]nd He shall sustain you.” Yeah, well, how do I do that? Is that just another way of saying, “Don’t worry about it, ol’ buddy. Ain’t nothing you can do, anyway”? They may finally fail, but how many of their poor victims did nothing but pray?