Hook me up. Ma'am. Buddy. Miss. Sir.
Hook me up. Operator. Drug dealer. Hillel coordinator. IOP devotee.
Hook me up, because you know that I want it and you can give it to me. I need your stuff, man, your line, your snuff, your meal, your contacts.
Hook me up for just a little while 'til I get through this call, this fix, this evening, this ambition.
Hook me up with the best connection, pot, chicken and challah, names.
Why are you so easy? You give me all that I want, or seem to want, or if it's free, do I really want it?
You offer. Because. And it's not that I don't want to get hooked up, because it's so important to me and it feels so good afterwards. But what are you giving me that afterwards I feel so weak and I need more.
You can't stop the outlets from proliferating because I need my phone, my fax, my modem. I crave the dope, the nitrous, the crack. I die without your sustenance, your community. I am nothing when deprived of that liaison with power.
So you give and ask for nothing in return. But I want it. I want more of your stuff, because it is my line, my life line. And you gave it to me so easily.
You need me. So you hook me up. And I like it. And I want more. And you are so generous...
And then the phone bill.
And then the addiction.
And then the atheism.
And then the cravenness.
And I am yours. Ma'am. Buddy. Miss. Sir.