The Disappointment
You slip out the back door, letting the screen door crash behind you. You snatch up your lucky red lighter from the brick window sill as you descend the short flight of steps down into the back yard. Resting one elbow on the lid of a wheelie bin, you light up your last cigarette and take a long, satisfying drag.
It's a warm afternoon, and the sun is just starting to set. As you breathe out a long plume of smoke, you stare enviously at the family dog, who's curled up in it's kennel. Lucky bastard. It gets to sleep all day, gets fed, and never has to worry about going to work or having money. You secretly wish that when you eventually die of liver failure, or a drug overdose, that you'll be reincarnated as a dog. But not a Vietnamese dog: things don't often end well for those poor mutts.
Speaking of getting fed, your stomach lets out a long, mournful moan. You realise that your hangover is finally starting to wear off (especially after that hair of the dog), and that you've had nothing to eat since that pie at the servo last night. And since that pie is now painting your bedroom carpet a new shade of brown, your stomach is basically eating itself.
Dinner is still a few hours off, but that would mean sitting at the table with the man who just saw your pink icicle and two hairy snowballs. Maybe it's just best to eat now and skip dinner altogether...
It's a warm afternoon, and the sun is just starting to set. As you breathe out a long plume of smoke, you stare enviously at the family dog, who's curled up in it's kennel. Lucky bastard. It gets to sleep all day, gets fed, and never has to worry about going to work or having money. You secretly wish that when you eventually die of liver failure, or a drug overdose, that you'll be reincarnated as a dog. But not a Vietnamese dog: things don't often end well for those poor mutts.
Speaking of getting fed, your stomach lets out a long, mournful moan. You realise that your hangover is finally starting to wear off (especially after that hair of the dog), and that you've had nothing to eat since that pie at the servo last night. And since that pie is now painting your bedroom carpet a new shade of brown, your stomach is basically eating itself.
Dinner is still a few hours off, but that would mean sitting at the table with the man who just saw your pink icicle and two hairy snowballs. Maybe it's just best to eat now and skip dinner altogether...