disgruntled

I don't know what the big deal is about brushing your teeth. It's like a retirement account, very boring to me. I went three days with the same clothes, or Id walk around the street shirtless with my dogs, not caring who sees my hairy body. Everyday I was surprised and impressed at where I woke up. I tried to masterbate, but I could barely concentrate as reality swung and missed at me. Jerking off to porn was like a TV dinner I didn't need before sleep - it was dull and drowsy, it lacked the the rapture of pounding raw meat, it was beer instead of methamphetamine. I was fed up with this day's existence, but I couldn't stop laughing at the thought that someone actually sat down and wrote this dialogue, and here I was clinging to his art. I would argue with myself, "concentrate, asshole!". I'm the kind of guy that will give himself a black eye and a fat lip. Then I stood in front of the mirror- this one I hadn't punched out yet- and let the facuet run. I gotta piss, hold on. Well, that was only a couple driplets- why are you wasting our time?

Then I cupped my hands. I splashed it all over my face, and I felt sparklets in my hair seeping behind my ear then carefree sliiding down my neck. I let the water take me, my skin, my soul with all its purity. I tried to tell myself that I love you, and the path you're on is really hurting us.

He goes, "fuck off, loser."