written by alyssacorpuz
He would wake up every morning, either earlier or later than the rest of his house. On the earlier days, he would promise himself that this would become a habit, something positive in his grumpy lifestyle. On the later days, he would lay and feel sorry for himself and regret the bottles he smashed into his face while he poured a morning glass. He would sit at his desk and stare at his notebook while sipping his late night sorrows. Whilst tapping his pen, looking out his window, and listening to sad songs on days bright like this one, he oftentimes tipped his chair in defeat and cocked his head back for that last gulp of consciousness. Then he would drag his feat to the john where he would piss away the blackout from the night before while simultaneously brushing his teeth, which might I mention, are one of his best characteristics. On some days, he would walk to and from his desk, scribbling a few lines here and there, popping his head into the fridge when he became restless and unsatisfied with what his words were creating in him. Other days, he would pile his utensils up and mumble fuck this as he would leave to spend the day out perhaps feasting on goods that would contribute to his temporary gut, or to the local thrift where he enjoyed purchasing party shirts and grandpa pants. He usually found himself at the book store, blowing away the month's rent on pages that reminded him of why he chose to write. He would walk out the store like he usually does, holding his stack like winnings, knowing that the collection would make a fine piece to his growing treasure. The doors of his bedroom would swing open, and he would not realize how late it was or how long he stayed at the bookstore until his body voluntarily followed its nightly routine. A couple of cock backs of the head until his vision was blurred but his mind finally clear. From then on, it is just a couple of swigs and he is back at his desk. He turns on his side lamp the way he usually does. It never matters if there is a woman sleeping in his bed or not, he always turns on his side lamp when he knows that his day is just getting started. A few lines here, a mountain of ideas everywhere, swigs there, until finally he has either created a piece he is content with, or he once again states the phrase fuck this and calls it quits just when the moon starts to disappear. On the early mornings where he has a woman in his bed, he crawls into the sheets and starts to breath heavily. She is either unresponsive, or she falls into the echo if his call and pulls in close. Other nights, he creeps into his sheets and curls up with his booze as he curses under his breath all the things that pisses him off in this fuck of a life he has got going on. Then from there it is lights out as he blacks out and pisses on his floor.
