What I was thinking when I shot Gatsby...

                When I shot Gatsby, my mind was numb. Myrtle had been everything to me. She was the only good thing left to me in this wretched world. I'd lost her. In fact, I'd lost her twice. Once when she was killed, and then twice when I lost the pure memory of her when I found out she had been unfaithful. Oh, whatever did I do to make God hate me so? I work long hours for meager pay, in a place I don't like, and for people I can't stand. The one thing I had was Myrtle, and as it happens, I didn't have her in the end either. So for once, I decided I was going to get something I wanted. I was going to get revenge. I knew that the man who had taken my wife as his mistress must have been the one to have killed her. I searched for him, my mind numb with anger, pain, and revenge. I was directed to Gatsby, and it was Gatsby I shot. I shot him because I had been sure that he was the one who had taken her life and her faithfulness. I shot him because I was thinking on revenge, on my losses, and on my cursed life. I shot him because my brain was numb with painful thoughts. My brain was numb.

What I was Feeling When Tom Delayed the Sale... Again

                         Running an auto repair shop is hard to do. Trying to run one in the Valley of Ashes is even harder. First of all, almost no one knows I exist out here. Even when they do, all the business still usually goes to the city- the large companies there out-compete me in every way. They're faster, cheaper, and have tons of workers. So in order to stay afloat, I have to jump at every opportunity, which is extremely stressful.

                           That is why working with Mr. Buchanan is so frustrating. He is my ticket to an easier life, if he would only sell me his rich-man's car. I could make a killing off of it, but the problem is the pompous braggart knows that. I'm convinced that he is toying with me, dangling his car in front of me. I suppose that's how he gets his kicks, by showing off his economic power over me. Why else would he constantly visit me, but never sell? Even his excuses are flimsy. I'll give you an example of one of our conversations:

Hello, Wilson, old man, how's business?
     I can't complain. When are you going to sell me that car?
Next week; I've got my man working on it now.
     Works pretty slow, don't he?
No, he doesn't, and if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all.
     I don't mean that, I just meant--

                              C'mon, I work in this industry- I know it doesn't take this long to fix a car for sale. 

Why I Chose to Live in the Valley of Ashes

                 There is this miserable little plot of land in between West Egg and the corrupt, sin-ridden city of New York. It is a God-forsaken place, a place filled with the rotting corpse of industry. It is my home, this Valley of Ashes. 

                  You might wonder why I would choose to live in such a place. I would tell you that I live here because I am afraid of what would happen to me if I didn't live here. 

                    To my left lies the city of New York, where I hear accounts of bootleggers shooting people and smuggling goods everywhere. If I lived there, I would constantly fear for my life. To my immediate right is West Egg, where the newly rich throw wild parties into the wee hours of the morning. If I lived there, I would never get a moment's sleep, and I would be constantly on edge as drunken men and women drove cars around my property. East Egg is a little beyond West Egg, and that is where the established wealth are ruined by the easy inheritance of money and social niceties. I would be afraid of the effect the place would have on me, perhaps turning me arrogant and dull as the years wore on. Anywhere beyond those places is really out of the question. Firstly, I could never afford to move everything Myrtle and I own that far. Secondly, Myrtle wouldn't ever hear of it. I don't know why, but she seems strangely attached to the place despite having only a few friends here.