Kitaab

Story from 131018

writing story 1970-01-01 00:00

%date 131018 00:00

I chose this place because it seemed like the right type of place for my kind of people. I knew that nobody I knew would be visiting at such hours, and even if they were there wouldn't have the balls to come up to me and go Hey Robin! How's it GOING, man? Did you finally give up alcohol? As if the bastards couldn't smell it on my breath. As if every breath I took wasn't already infested with my posion. Surprisingly there were two other people in this dump thankfully I knew neither. One was an old geezer staring intently at something. I couldn't tell what. It's not like it mattered. It was a piece of fucking paper. What's a piece of paper matter? The waitress brought my black. As she turned around I added my moonshine to it. It balanced the bitterness of the dark empty abyss that would at least keep me alive. In the real world. My dreams would torture me, and I'd wake up even more tired than before I went to sleep. The other was a hag I'd probably be trying to butter up if I wasn't perpetual drunk. Sitting on her phone she was quite content to ignore the rest of the world. She seemed rich. No. A rich girl gone broke. Her dad probably disowned or something just as sad. Sick. Rather dull infact. I'm sure she thought herself queen of fucking Mars. As if anybody even lives on Mars. I coughed down my coffee fogetting to savor the taste. Spending so much time and energy perfecting my craft only to forget to enjoy it. What's the use? What of my continued existance? What of it? The sun begun coming out. The geezer and his hag left, I wonder what happened to them. No not them I meant my flask. What happened to my flask?