Hey, there, buddy, have a seat. No? That’s fine too. I know you don’t drink, but I hope you don’t mind if I pour myself a Guinness while we talk.

Let me tell you a ghost story. You see, when my grandfather was a teenager, he had this buddy named Lim. They were best buds, like you and me. One day gramps loaned Lim a dictionary to help him study for his tests, and Lim wound up selling the book to buy booze. Gramps was pissed, but Lim promised him he’d get the book back.

A few months later, Lim went to war and got shot somehere in the Phillipines. Every night after, he’d show up at Gramps’ bedside. “Just wait, Tae, I’ll get your book back,” he’d say. It lasted for three weeks until Gramps went to a Buddhist priest and burned incense for Lim, saying, “It’s okay, buddy, keep the book.”

All I’m trying to say is the same thing that I’ve tried to say the last four times you appeared to me with your head smashed in and jagged glass in your chest: I don’t blame you for wrecking my car, dude. It’s all right.