Whores

I walked far with a blank swagger, staring ahead at nothing. Cars with bright headlights went by and the urge to jump in front of one bit at me every time. We all are going to die sometime. Why not go out dramatically instead of pathetically? I thought about how I would jump out at the last minute, turn to face the car, and charge at it as if bumping playfully at a friend. I would get thrown, fall into a position of impossibly twisted limbs, blood trickling from out the corner of my mouth. If possible, I'd get out my phone and get a hold of Clayton to let him know I was dying.

Then I'd scoff at myself after imagining this death. As if they would care about you, huh? Fucking idiot. Of course not. He was too busy acquiring hickies and fucking the whores that stopped in for the evening. Loudly, on the other side of my bedroom wall.

So against his wishes, at the end of my catatonic walk, I bought my cigarettes and walked back to the apartment. Sometimes pure anger and hate shook me violently and I'd shiver with the urge to destroy something...somebody...myself.

Hmm. I think overall it was not a good evening.