Chewing on the cream filled bun, I raise my other hand and a leg and roll over to the other side. I’m sleepy. This is how good I am in bed. I always have been. Last time I checked, I was telling myself to quit eating sugar. Scratch that. I’m glad there’s no unfinished work but my sorry ass doesn’t realise there’s no Job either. But blaming the world is fun and calling it cruel is not an understatement. Truth is a hard pill to swallow, I think pills are truths, too much of those kill you like truth itself. I know some truths and they’re lies.
I finished the bun, it’s too small and less sugary. I now think I paid too much for it, everything is so fucking expensive. There’s another in the fridge; I wish it walked to me, not the other way around. I’m not lazy, just selectively active. A tiny red ant died in my arms today, the asshole had a death wish. Biting my flesh has dire consequences.
Let’s just go get something to eat.
(Where the hell did this ant come from?)
(Somebody clean my bed)