David Michod's The Rover and Why You're Not A Winner
Problem: You killed your wife because you caught her mouth on someone else's. It is the acopalypse, and your crime is no more important as scouring for food or a Marian Rivera used undies to eat Tuslob Buwa with. You read someone write acopalypse instead of apocalypse and realize nobody cares for stern grammar anymore, and you're still as proudly judgmental as ever. You're alone, and it's not their problem anymore. It's your problem anymore.
Solution: You watch David Michod's The Rover and remember Robert Pattinson's twitch, humanity and death as yours. Then question humanity because you're still racist.
You wish you were caught, because at least banishment is a symptom of care. Money is as worthless as a Moleskine you write your Fault In Our Stars commentary on. You're in Ayala, and there's no Cavendish Banana in Starbucks because the coffee shop is rimming with rotten people, all their phones in their scarred mouths, moths hovering over their heads at Glen Hansard's Love Don't Keep Me Waiting's tune. There's no Trivia Night tonight because there will no longer be. What do you do?
