Bitter. A love story.

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"It's never too late." (Work in progress.)

Sunlight streams through the open window as I feel a light breeze across my face. My bed is soft and warm. Outside, I can hear children playing. Grabbing my sunglasses I slam the window shut. That's enough of that. What's the difference between the sound of children playing and the sound of Godzilla attacking Tokyo? Nothing. The answer is nothing. Walking to the bathroom like I'm auditioning for the Walking Dead I briefly contemplate my life. I decide that everything that has ever happened to me is everyone else's fault and I bear no responsibility whatsoever. Staring into the mirror, I remember a time when I could leave the house without looking like I'd forgot to iron my face. Those were the days. Halfway through gargling my mouthwash I hear a loud knock at my front door. Wonderful. I never usually open my door to unsolicited knockers, as there are any number of weirdos wandering around the parish. I decide to risk it. I spit, trudge downstairs and open the door. They've left. Typical. I used to energise myself in the morning by drinking coffee, but since it started to give me heart palpitations I've had to find a new way to reintroduce myself to the world each day. Dog walking. I throw on an outfit that looks like it randomly hit me when a thrift shop exploded. I used to wear nice clothes, have shiny hair and perfected makeup, but when I reached the age of forty I magically turned invisible. Now I dress for comfort. As I'm dragging my sleepy and extremely lazy dog outside, I throw an empty vodka bottle into the bin. I don't recycle. Since I don't have children, my legacy to the world will be a gigantic pile of rubbish blighting the Earth for all time.

 

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