Author S. K. Nicholas

The cat keeps on looking at me. I throw a marble at it, and he runs into the kitchen and sulks. I’m tired, so I drink another beer and study my Christmas presents. Earlier, I received a message from a girl in America. She thanked me for existing. It made me feel less like death while nursing another hangover. I want her to come round and sing me to sleep: I want her beautiful eyes to watch over me as I drift into dreams. But it won’t happen, so I throw another marble at the cat. In retaliation, he darts towards me and bites my foot. Cursing him as he hides behind the curtain, visions of presidential assassinations flicker behind my eyes, as do birthmarks of ex-lovers. There’re too many people; too many useless opinions, and too many belly buttons I’ll never get to kiss. Jack Daniels. Wisdom teeth. A thousand days of purgatory not wishing to give in. Knife fights as I masturbate to random images of a car crash with mutilated bodies carried from the wreck and placed in fresh snow. Their blood stains purity; it tells us all we need to know about lust and the nature of mortality. Maybe. It’s a dark ride, but it tastes so good.