Story collection 5

But, of course, John never saw anything in Steve and Rebecca’s

window. He thought of urinating in a glass bottle and throwing it
through their window, but he couldn’t even work up the courage to do
that. He was a loser who couldn’t even commit a petty act of vandalism.

He was a dumb dumb stupid dumb writer—painter!—who couldn’t even

afford an office, so he wrote—painted!—in a Starbucks because he got
fired from Fleurstein and Kaplowitz for making copies of his stories—
paintings!—when he was supposed to be copying legal briefs for those
corrupt corporate shylocks.

And Rebecca would never come back to him and no one would ever
love him and he was going to die fat and bald and alone and miserable in
the ugly house his in-laws bought to suffocate and kill him!

Maybe I’ll get a tea. I like that hibiscus one. It’s sweet but not too sweet.
It’s nice. It’s a nice flavor.

And maybe I will get a slice of that pumpkin loaf. I think I had it before.
I think I definitely liked it. I think it must be seasonal. I haven’t seen it
in a while.

I’ll eat and drink and then get back to work. Everything seems to be
flowing well. It was a little tough getting into it but now it’s really
flowing. It’s weird how I do that—how I think I can’t write something
and suddenly I’m carried away and then I can’t stop writing. I think I’m
too hard on myself. I think I punish myself for no reason. But I think I’m
really hitting my stride now. I’ll just get that tea. That nice hibiscus tea.

And then get back to work.