EPOV
A xylophone plays somewhere in the recesses of my mind and I don't understand why the fuck it's doing that or what the song is but it's driving me batshit. I punch my pillow with considerable force in a lame attempt to get rid of the irritating music but it doesn't work. The music only gets louder and faster and fuck me dead I would give my own mother for some aspirin.
Some chick lies next to me and sue me but I don't know who she is and that shits me hard. I had vowed like a fucking week ago that I wouldn't do this shit any more but apparently my bitch of a subconscious doesn't understand the meaning of no more goddamn meaningless sex. Well, I can't really blame it, but fuck. This shit has some serious repercussions sometimes. A while ago I had to get treated for the clap, which was the beginning of my whole I-swear-to-god-I'm-stopping-this-shit oath. So, quite understandably in my opinion, I'm pissed that I did this crap again. I don't even remember if I used a condom or not, though the jelly-fish like piece of latex lying on my carpet reassures me. It hits me that I'll need to clean that up, as well as the drops of semen spattered around it like some kid's finger-painting, resulting in a rambunctious "fuck" from yours truly.
Unfortunately this wakes up the mystery blonde next to me, who rolls over and scrapes her too-long blood-red nails against my chest with a murmured, "hey baby." Let me get this straight, I'm no one's fucking baby, but I don't say anything to her because of the headache pounding in my skull like a goddamn wrecking ball.
Slowly and carefully I roll out of my bed, miscalculating the distance and ending up with my ass on the dirty carpet. Fuck. I hear the blonde giggle and give her a dirty look, mentally, since in reality I can't manage shit before I get some coffee and help me god if I don't find some aspirin.
Clothes lie randomly around the room, a shirt on the lamp, some pants on my leather chair, a thong on my ceiling fan which leaves me with a huge question mark in the back of my mind. The blonde takes her cue from me and gets up, stretching lazily, perfect tits bouncing slightly as she gets up and opens the blinds. Shit, that light is like a laser right to the eyes. Mine narrow into slits and I hurry out of the room, feeling like a fucking vampire. It's a shame though, 'cause those tits kind of got my dick hardening. Down boy.
Eventually shit progresses – the headache subsides with some heaven pills, coffee gets digested, blonde gets kicked out offensively but I don't particularly give a shit. I don't belong in her world – well, I still do, but fuck me I am trying my best to get out. Well, I was, before last night. I still have no idea what happened, so I call my brother, who always knows what the fuck goes on with everyone.
"Sup boy-o?" Emmett says to me when he answers his cell, cheerful even after what seems like a long night of drinking and sex. I'll never get that guy, though I thank Jesus for him everyday. He has saved my ass so many times, I stopped counting when I was 15, vomiting in the bushes outside our house while he held my hair patiently.
I hold the cell in between my ear and shoulder as I pat around for my cigarettes. I know exactly where they are, but the pat is all part of the process. I light one up and take a drag, watching the smoke billow out like a faery's fart.
"So I wake up, monster headache, really hot piece of ass lying next to me, confused as fuck. Start talking," I eventually reply, harsher than needed but I just want to know what the hell went on. I stare at the grime on my walls and grimace. The dirt, in my opinion, gives the place character, though once in a while I wish for a clean place. Actually, I can't really call it a 'place'. More like just some walls stuck together with a carpet that's akin to the fur of a sewer-rat, situated in the asshole of the world, New York. Yeah, I'm not bitter at all.
"How the fuck can't you remember man?" he asks, laughing. "It was the best night ever dude. Clubs, booze, women. Hell we had about five hanging around us, three of them went off with Jazz, can you believe it?" he cackled at our middle brother's luck. "Lucky bastard. But I got one, you got one, everyone won in my opinion."
I rub my palm over my face roughly, frustrated. Em's the best guy I know, but he doesn't get why I want out of this lifestyle. "Thanks Em," I hang up without a goodbye, but I doubt it fazes my brother. Nothing ever does.
I pace up and down my filthy apartment, glaring out the windows at times to see all the people rushing, always rushing, like ants gathering food to feed their little fucking ant queen. Peons, all of them. Slaving away for some money that they could lose in the blink of an eye, money that'll only buy them an average house, maybe a picket fence and some toys for their mini-peons, who'll grow up to do the same pointless shit they do.
Fuck. I decide that the only way to cure my raging hangover at this point in time is some more alcohol, which I find in one of my dusty cabinets in my semblance of a kitchen. Swigging the whisky and staring pensively at a burn mark on my carpet, I try to decide what the fuck to do with my life.
I work in construction, one of the minions to Queen Bee America. I hate it, I hate my apartment, I hate all my content friends who don't dream of anything bigger then a beer at some pub around the corner. Fuck, the world has so many riches to plunder and those guys don't know squat about it, or even want to know, which is worse in my opinion. Someday, I vow to myself viciously. Someday I'll get out of this shithole and make something of myself.
The goblin statue on my coffee table winks at me slyly and I shove it onto the ground, breaking it's nose in the process. Well, it was too perfect anyway. Noseless, it looks more realistic to me, more like something that can exist in this world of fucking imperfections and ridiculously misplaced righteousness.
But philosophy is for the rich, which I am not, and am reminded of constantly by my shitty furniture, shitty job and shitty life.
I don't want to get too depressed about shit I can't do a whole lot about, so I attempt to push the thoughts of unsuccessfulness out of my mind and for the most part, I succeed, ironically. I jump off the ground, grab my leather jacket and bound out of my apartment, which is only a tiny wart on the massive asshole that is Manhattan. Going down stairs is a simple task when you've got legs like ugly skyscrapers, so it takes me no time at all. Unfortunately, the momentum from the stairs has got me going so fast that I knock the woman about to go up them flat on her ass, spilling all the shit she had in her grasp in the process.
This situation isn't all shits and giggles though, because I get knocked down too. My head gets whacked on the stupid peeling floor quite fucking badly, I take my hat off to it. The headache's now back in full force. Seems like it'll be here for a while, so I'll give it a name. Doug.
I sit up with my palms behind my back, dazed a little. Were those stars? Fuck me.
I turn my head to the chick, who's picking up all of the assorted crap she was holding before – tubes of paint, cans of it, brushes, some sort of glittery shit and twigs. In my semi-drunk state all I can think is that she's making a type of nest and decorating it for a bird-goddess who's going to stay with her for some stupid reason. But who cares, she looks fucking adorable. Blushing like crazy, some spattered paint on one cheek and a little in her hair, which is up in a messy brown bun. Her deep mocha eyes are working overdrive trying to see if she has missed anything, before they lift up to mine and encompass me in their warmth, tinted with frustration and embarrassment.
To me, she's like a mystical nymph, come to sex me out of whatever haze I've been in for the last few years.
