FOCK OFF. Seriously.
It is 2:00 AM and I am leaning outside my window. Birds, stupid creepy birds are chirping up a storm, and I have a pot of boiling water to fling in their general direction. My fine feathered friends fail to come out of hiding. Resigned to another mostly sleepless night, I fling the pot into the darkness. Eventually I hear a distant thud. The chirping increases exponentially.
As I finish shaving, I stare at the image in the mirror, a face bespeckled with fresh cuts. The countenance looking back is an emotionless troll with the bedside manner of Dr Kevorkian. I wonder how long it would take to bleed to death.
I sit on the train, and stare at the other passengers. They shift uncomfortably in their seats, no doubt seeking relief from the raspberries, those red sore spots on the insides of their legs caused by friction of a pair of meaty thighs rubbing against each other in humid conditions. It occurs to me that nobody looks like themselves anymore.
I step off the train and onto the platform. The bitterness in my throat wells up, and I need to spit. I turn without looking and hock. As luck would have it, the phlegm makes a beeline to the forehead of a baby in a carriage. Amazingly, the baby stops crying and seems to be amused with the substance on its face. The mother takes in the scene and is horrified. She opens her mouth, about to utter something that will ensure that she gets smashed in the face. I fear no one; although the folks at student loans make me uneasy, as I suspect those heartless monsters make sure you keep paying even after you die. I spit again; another direct hit. The mother throws a punch. I duck and solidly kick her in her fish bucket. Not wanting to waste any more time, I proceed to the subway tunnels for my regular morning exercise of ultimate fighting with the homeless.
Fock Off.
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It is 2:00 AM and I am leaning outside my window. Birds, stupid creepy birds are chirping up a storm, and I have a pot of boiling water to fling in their general direction. My fine feathered friends fail to come out of hiding. Resigned to another mostly sleepless night, I fling the pot into the darkness. Eventually I hear a distant thud. The chirping increases exponentially.
As I finish shaving, I stare at the image in the mirror, a face bespeckled with fresh cuts. The countenance looking back is an emotionless troll with the bedside manner of Dr Kevorkian. I wonder how long it would take to bleed to death.
I sit on the train, and stare at the other passengers. They shift uncomfortably in their seats, no doubt seeking relief from the raspberries, those red sore spots on the insides of their legs caused by friction of a pair of meaty thighs rubbing against each other in humid conditions. It occurs to me that nobody looks like themselves anymore.
I step off the train and onto the platform. The bitterness in my throat wells up, and I need to spit. I turn without looking and hock. As luck would have it, the phlegm makes a beeline to the forehead of a baby in a carriage. Amazingly, the baby stops crying and seems to be amused with the substance on its face. The mother takes in the scene and is horrified. She opens her mouth, about to utter something that will ensure that she gets smashed in the face. I fear no one; although the folks at student loans make me uneasy, as I suspect those heartless monsters make sure you keep paying even after you die. I spit again; another direct hit. The mother throws a punch. I duck and solidly kick her in her fish bucket. Not wanting to waste any more time, I proceed to the subway tunnels for my regular morning exercise of ultimate fighting with the homeless.
Fock Off.
