Twenty One
The other night, I had a dream that I was home, beside the fireplace with the rich and famous Mr. Screwjack. He was snoring heavily as he lay on my lap while I finished up an article and lit a new cigarette. I woke up only to find myself still in this rotting stink of a city. This wasteland; this hellhole. This filthy pit of scum.
I am angry, city. I am angry and I am irritable. I'm running low on supplies and there's no way in fuck that I'll set a foot in that underground trap alone, again. Fuck no, I'll stay up here where I can see the face of the pig that tries to screw me over. Shove my gun to his side and tell him to fuck off. That'll teach 'em. Leave a sick man to his miserable life. Miserable and sick...that, I am. I don't want to blame it on the drugs, that wouldn't be fair. But blame it on this terrible city, no problem.
Pathetic, that's what this is. I'll use the shit I've had to put up with for the past few months as an excuse. An excuse for why there are empty bottles of Wild Turkey, Chivas Regal, and good old Southern Comfort laying all over the apartment. An excuse for being an angry repetitive drunk in a city full of angry repetitive drunks. The lot of you. You should be proud.
Where the fuck is home, anymore? If I must have a home to dream of...if I can't find my way out of this rabbit hole and back on my feet. An aspiring writer--right, right. What am I, now?
[ooc; er...still on Hiatus...sorry guys, I'm still not caught up with life. I just wanted to get a post in before the end of the month so that I wouldn't be marked inactive.]
I am angry, city. I am angry and I am irritable. I'm running low on supplies and there's no way in fuck that I'll set a foot in that underground trap alone, again. Fuck no, I'll stay up here where I can see the face of the pig that tries to screw me over. Shove my gun to his side and tell him to fuck off. That'll teach 'em. Leave a sick man to his miserable life. Miserable and sick...that, I am. I don't want to blame it on the drugs, that wouldn't be fair. But blame it on this terrible city, no problem.
Pathetic, that's what this is. I'll use the shit I've had to put up with for the past few months as an excuse. An excuse for why there are empty bottles of Wild Turkey, Chivas Regal, and good old Southern Comfort laying all over the apartment. An excuse for being an angry repetitive drunk in a city full of angry repetitive drunks. The lot of you. You should be proud.
Where the fuck is home, anymore? If I must have a home to dream of...if I can't find my way out of this rabbit hole and back on my feet. An aspiring writer--right, right. What am I, now?
[ooc; er...still on Hiatus...sorry guys, I'm still not caught up with life. I just wanted to get a post in before the end of the month so that I wouldn't be marked inactive.]