Sunday, January 9, 2011

Image by Annie Hintsala, copyright  2011

Chapter One: Broken Bottle and a Phonebook.
The glass on the ground was getting stuck in my shoes, but I couldn’t be bothered with it at the moment. I had broken the bottle earlier, in a small rage, I admit, but it did miss the man’s head, so why did everyone leave? All my parties end up that way. A broken bottle on my kitchen tile, winking mockingly at me in my crappy florescent lights and me looking for a phone book to order last minute pizza. I wish I knew how to program the speed dial on my phone. At least there was no blood to clean up this time, and no police had shown up in the last hour, so they probably wouldn’t. Probably.
I wandered around to the living room with green glass scrunching on the tiles as it became imbedded into the rubber soles of my shoes. The couch cushions were off again, and the bong was tipped over onto one of them. Dammit. No fixing that. I think I had already turned the cushions once because of stains, but I couldn’t be sure till I looked. I won’t be bothered till I find the phone book and order my damn pizza though. And maybe not even then. I hate Sunday nights.
Sunday night is the last moment before Monday. The last gasp of a dying weekend giving way to an already dead week filled with the zombies in the office, garnished with a life-sucking vampiric boss. I glance at my watch and wait for my eyes to focus on the tiny numbers and little black hands moving around the gold circle. Dammit. It’s already Monday. Where the hell is that phone book?
One of my standing lights fall over as I sway into it on my way through the living room. The bulb breaks and winks out with a small crash, adding to the problem of broken glass. Good thing I live alone. Or at least it’s a good thing in this instance.
I giggle a bit as I search fruitlessly for the phone book, and the pizza that is never going to arrive. I have been alone for three months, two weeks and three days. Correction. Three and a little bit of a fourth days. Bruce had walked out then, taking the cat, taking the PlayStation and possibly taking the phone book. I didn’t blame him. I’m a bitch. I know that, but I can’t change it. Trying just makes me bitchier, which makes me smoke more, which makes me drink more, which makes me throw bottles at strange men’s heads just because they were wearing a shirt like one that Bruce had.
I have to find that damn phone book. Why would he take the phone book?
At this point, I notice the trail of blood from my shoe and I feel a sense of closure. Ah, here was the blood. Now my night is complete. I head for the bathroom, leaning against the wall as I go. I pull my shoe off, toppling over in the process and ending up on the floor, which also adds to my sense of closure. Then I see it. The phone book, behind the toilet, splendid amongst the hairballs and beautiful with the add for pizza on the front. Right before I passed out from too much of everything except blood I thought, Who reads the phone book in the toilet? Oh, wait…dammit…that was me.

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