Lunch, all fifteen minutes of it, had me writing this drivel:
I am a violent, very violent storm seen by you, safe and secure, from a house on a cliff top overlooking the sea.
If you do not approach me then I will not approach you.
Look away now as I vent my fruitless fury.
My day continued with me doing seriously retarded things like accidentally thwacking myself hard my left cheekbone with the phone.
My resolution is that if it bruises I’ll tell my boss that I was assaulted on the way home. It’s a vain thought [and thought of an attempt] to get a little revenge on her for fucking with my shifts in a way that is financially detrimental to me and for playing favourites. You might say that I’m sick to fucking death of work.
I’m ending the night with a couple of cold ones. Who’d’ve thought that the daughter of alcoholics would attempt to solve her problems with alcohol?
Tomorrow can get fucked. And the day after. And the day after.