The Beginnings
Note to the reader: Due to a severe lack of memory, I will not be journaling my thoughts on any events that have happened to myself personally, instead i will chronicle the life of Juan Moreno in short clipped segments. If you do not care to read please remove my name from the friend list. I must write. thank you.
His name was Juan Moreno. He liked chicken. Mostly because it was free, but also because he only had to use one hand to eat it. that freed up the mouse hand. Juan liked to see how many clicks it took him to get to KFC.com from popeyes.com. "Popeyes, ha, second rate chicken." His best was 19. Jaun held the record, well technically he was the only person who played the game. Nevertheless the record stood at 19.
16...17...18...19...20
"Agh!" Juan coughed. Eyes looked toward him, then at the chicken bucket, then the greasy hand still twisting a mangled drumstick, then the flake of breding on his black moustache. Food wasn't allowed in the library. Juan questioned the eyes for signs of violence, especially the kind he hated, the kind in his direction. The brown ocean eyes saw more incredulty than maliciousness, he didn't know what those words meant but at least he was safe...for now.
The taste fading, his mouth yearned for chicken. Juan was happy to oblige. click...1...click...2...
peaking between computer monitors in the flourescent lighted study, was Irving Vant. The eyes. Juan had resumed but the eyes hadn't left. Irv, as his mom called him, he hated it, but it was her roof and a Popeyes manager salarie doesn't pay for an apartment in Minesota for long, at leat that was his excuse. Mom didn't buy it. "blah, blah, blah...your'e 35 years old...blah, blah, blah..get out!"
I'll show her, yes and I'll show you, Juan with your damnable KFC visor. Yes I will.
His name was Juan Moreno. He liked chicken. Mostly because it was free, but also because he only had to use one hand to eat it. that freed up the mouse hand. Juan liked to see how many clicks it took him to get to KFC.com from popeyes.com. "Popeyes, ha, second rate chicken." His best was 19. Jaun held the record, well technically he was the only person who played the game. Nevertheless the record stood at 19.
16...17...18...19...20
"Agh!" Juan coughed. Eyes looked toward him, then at the chicken bucket, then the greasy hand still twisting a mangled drumstick, then the flake of breding on his black moustache. Food wasn't allowed in the library. Juan questioned the eyes for signs of violence, especially the kind he hated, the kind in his direction. The brown ocean eyes saw more incredulty than maliciousness, he didn't know what those words meant but at least he was safe...for now.
The taste fading, his mouth yearned for chicken. Juan was happy to oblige. click...1...click...2...
peaking between computer monitors in the flourescent lighted study, was Irving Vant. The eyes. Juan had resumed but the eyes hadn't left. Irv, as his mom called him, he hated it, but it was her roof and a Popeyes manager salarie doesn't pay for an apartment in Minesota for long, at leat that was his excuse. Mom didn't buy it. "blah, blah, blah...your'e 35 years old...blah, blah, blah..get out!"
I'll show her, yes and I'll show you, Juan with your damnable KFC visor. Yes I will.