...but by the time what he liked to call "current social configuration" became obvious, it was too fucking late:

-Train has passed, son, better luck next year. 

-Don't piss me off, old man, don't fucking mess with me. There's no exit, and there'll never be; more importantly, there's nothing you or I can make to change that.

-So you say...

-You better believe it. 

-Or?

-Nothing. You got no choice whatsoever.

Yeah, that was fucking reality, or at least that was the way he liked to call it. Sounded good, innit? It was like naming a fucking Chihuahua "Beethoven", or to title "Don Quijote" that fucking entry in that fucking blog: too fucking cool opportunity to miss, even though he knew how small the room and how irrelevant the talk were. "Current-social-configuration...", he thought, "...it doesn't make any fucking goddamn sense".