I used to be smitten with Marsha when she had the big "fuck me" hair going on and some common sense before she firmly clamped her lips on GayZ's AIDS ridden shriveled up peenee.
Back in the day when I was a contractor with the Company (1980-1995), me and Punk, my handler (Pam, permanently retired 2008), used to hobnob with the e-lites sometimes.
NDAs prevent me from talking about most of that shit, but when I'm feeling sorry for myself and I have a snootful of liquor, bits sometimes leak out.
I'll talk all day long, but not via phone/internet, and without cell phones within 10 meters. Most of my buddies don't believe me, but that's probably for the best.
Face-to-face, it's all hearsay. I have no problem lying to the government, which I hate now, but I won't do it to friends though.
"At my feet, eternity, cries ever sweeter plans for me"
(Addendum) I have some vague recollections of some really fancy-pants affairs back then. One was some dinner with Coach Bobby Knight of IU basketball (who died recently), Punk's and other Company folk's anniversary party somewhere, and being thrust into giving speeches. Most of that is gone, probably because I didn't like it, and when "Texting Woman" mashed up my brain in an auto accident ten years ago, I wanted it to go away.
The eyes of the dead never go away. You can't close their eyes like in the movies, they reopen. A Marine medic explained that to me back in '83. It still didn't work with my dogs when me and my ex-wife would send them to the Rainbow Bridge at the vet's joint. We (meaning me) wanted their last vision/memory to be of us when they got the shot.
That's fucking hard, but if you don't experience death, you can't appreciate life.