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My mother, bless her heart, complains about the price of everything, rutabagas or rubies, she complains about the cost, and I always ask her, can you make it yourself. 

This mundane, ordinary exchange probably happens all the time, about things far more potent than rutabagas.

You get the idea from movies that the back-and-forth between people who are planning a murder, or a terrorist attack, is a dramatic piece of business. Or if you're a Quentin Tarantino fan, a quirky, dramatic piece of business.

But most of our exchanges are ordinary, mundane. We glory in a kum-by-ya moment until some heinous event occurs and then we wonder, how could this have happened.

It happens, the same way you make a grocery list or pay the gas bill

Diapers, bullets, celery, phosphorous; can you make it yourself.

The business of life is mundane, the world over.

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