It wasn't a good day to start off with, anyway.
With hopes of unwinding, I cracked open a book soon after getting home. A few pages in I hurled it across the room with a strangled scream. If I read one more story about fucking over decent women because of big titted bimbos, or every other line being about some bitch's ass and legs and the fucking insatiable, misogynistic tendencies of men I will gouge my eyes out. What pisses me off the most is that the author is a great writer, and still such a damn pig.
I stared at the book for a while before I had to leave the room where it lay. I felt guilty because it was a present that I had tossed and left to sit crumpled and sad on the floor, but even more ashamed because I felt no desire to pick it up from its dishevelled state. As if I could punish the writer by letting his book lay sprawled in a corner.
I had planned not to drink, but in my lividity I combed my floor, scrounging up $3 in change so I could buy some vodka. I can't take it, I really can't. Even the nicest guys have almost naked models plastered to their bedroom walls. Its always the same.
I'll never be like that. I'll never look like that. I'll never feel good enough. Women are so replacable, you know? Get a prettier one and men are prey to their instincts.
The man at the liqour store remarked on my tear streaked cheeks and I snarled at him to mind his own business and give me my god damn liqour. On the way home it began to pour. I parked my car in the driveway and stood in the rain while I cracked open the bottle. Just stood there, getting drenched and drinking my vodka.
Neither made me feel any better.