'Dear Susan,' "Ah hell that's all wrong too."

'To everyone that teased me, tortured me, and drove me to this end,' "Arrrggghhhhhh!"

'FUCK YOU ALL' I tore the sheet from the typewriter, crumbled it, and threw it at the wall. I sat there a moment and just stared at the typewriter, stood, retrieved the paper, and unfolded it. I read it again and sighed. 
Grabbing a lighter from my desktop I set the paper on fire and watched it burn it's way down to my fingers, finally dropping it with a yelp. This of course, gave the fire fuel as the floor was shag carpet.

I jumped up and scrambled for the sink in my studio apt, grabbed a glass, and filled. When the flames died I stared at the blackened mark in the carpet and groaned.

'Fuck, fuck fuck fuckity fuckity goddamned FUCK!" I picked up a paperweight from my desk and hurled it against the wall. I succeeded, of course, in putting a hole in the sheetrock.

"FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK!" I crouched down and lay in a fetal position in the middle of the floor, whimpering. I fell asleep that way.

* * *

I woke up just after sunrise and surveyed the damage. I could move the desk to cover the carpert, and get some stucco for the wall. I was covered. The landlord wouldn't find out, at least until well after I was beyond reproach.

I thought about my recently-ex-wife, the dozens of impersonal rejection slips wall papering the wall opposite the dent (Alfred A Knoph, Doubleday, Bantom...), the dreary line at the unemployment office vs. the prospect of yet another mindless interview for some work study dark basement library job (Ex-English majors being a dime a dozen), the decrepic piece of shit studebaker I called mine, my carefree days as a youth when such thoughts of how can i afford both dinner and my college loan payments did not cross my mind, the total and complete loss of creativity and optimism. Finally my mind rocketed to the bottle of pills (qualudes? I couldn't remember what I'd drummed up from the medical locker this time--my wife was a nurse and I had gotten quite good at stealing from 
the hospital) , the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and the resin in my hash pipe.

I was born to a middle aged couple long since dead, raised by grandparents as equally dead, and an only child. I had no cousins, no aunts, no uncles. My surname was Popovski (the origin of which I guess is Russian) and with my death so dies my family line. My childhood was mostly spent reading bad gothic/horror books and watching reruns of "Night of the Living Dead"esque movies. I always kept to myself in school and niether have, nor have had any friends. I am about as unmissable a person can be.

I found my pipe and scraped the resin from it into my little brass shoe polish tin. I didn't have enough to bother with unfortunetly, so I opted for the pills instead, washing them down with some whiskey. I knew Jack better than I knew any living person. 

Settled, calmed, tuned out, I set back down at the typewrite. Four months and I haven't even finished a rough draft...came close once but the end, so far out of reach, infuriated me to the point of wiping my ass with it.

_________________________________________

I think this guy is my favorite of the lot so far. 

current mood:  excited
current music: Tori Amos 08.25.99 
 
 

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