Author S. K. Nicholas

Curled on the floor with slender lines of light cutting across my body, the hours of the day pass unseen. Sunshine spilling through half-open blinds, the only thing that could come close to my hangover is being arse-fucked by the devil himself. Attempting to crawl beneath the bed and disappear, my frame won’t fit, so I just lie there looking up at the ceiling. In a pit of sunken despair, I decide never to write another word in my life. I’m a failed writer, even more than I’m a failed lover, so that’s it. I’m done. Chewing on a stick of gum to rid my mouth of the taste of vomit and sambuca shots, I masturbate while thinking of her slender legs and painted toenails, but each time I approach the little death my head implodes, so I quit and sink further into the abyss. Thinking of the tender tissue of her breasts, I picture my mouth sucking on her nipples. Sucking then biting. Biting then sucking. Covering my eyes with a sweaty palm, it’s like I’m on the pier Edvard Munch painted with the same unholy screams of nature tearing right through me. Shaking in despair, I make the decision to throw away all my books. Even my old journals. I’m going to work in an office and date some girl who detests everything I once stood for. I’ll fuck her every night for the rest of my life, and make sure to hate her with a passion. It’ll be a fine punishment for ever believing there was more to life than fitting in. Maybe she’ll let me shave her vagina? Perhaps she’ll even let me teabag her while I admire my body in the mirror above the bed? Oh, such horrors that surely await me. How they make me cry. How they reduce me even further so that in a few hours they’ll be nothing left of what I once was. Like a snake that sheds its skin, I’m changing into something so similar yet fundamentally removed from who I used to be.