City of Singles Read Free

glass feels slippery and cold in my clammy hands. I tilt it back, drink the last shot, and put it upright on the table. It’s important to show respect for the poison, saluting the empty bottle with my free hand while warm fumes of alcohol pour from my nose. Cracking and popping noises in abused sinuses, a disqualified nose protesting last night’s uphill skiing championship. Liquor entering my stomach mimics Norm at Cheers, every ulcer happily waving. This time the hard bar is less welcome than masturbation in a mall food court. The next five minutes is spent making promises in my head to not drink anymore today if the stomach agrees not to turn inside out. We make peace mentally, kiss, and make up.
    Normality isn’t normally around here, and while normally I wouldn’t just smoke first thing in the morning, it is neither morning, nor normal. I sit by one of the only two windows of the studio. Flick. Bubble and breathe. A deep inhale, a seagull cries out. Do seagulls prefer one type of French fry to another? I certainly do prefer McDonald’s fries to most others. Golden grease sticks with the power to magically cure nearly every ailment. Try having a chocolate shake and French fries and being mad. You can’t. Clown food is gaudy edible comfort, the ghost of meals changes your style, dresses you in those unfashionable lipids. This bong sticks my worries onto the wings of a gull and carries them away from Cordova Street. Maybe later that gull will shit my worries out on some unsuspecting tool biking the seawall. Sharp echoes of an angry voice mixes with hard wheels of a shopping cart pushed down the alley. Wish I could give that poor cart a toke, I can’t imagine how it’s been treated.
    A flush and a door opening signals the return of my visitor, girl skin creamy under bathroom spotlights delivering a reason for pied eyes to remain open.
    “Shit! Why didn’t you fucking say it was nearly 4!” Katelynn bellows, putting her hair up. “I told you I had to be at my parent’s for this afternoon, I fucking told you!”
    Tiny girl feet make more noise than they should across concrete loft. She bends over to pick up her skirt, bra and t-shirt. Right now loving the way her breasts hang there, a solid C cup. A dirty mind drift is recalling her riding me, grabbing her breasts and licking both of those nipples together. My back arched as much as it can, hips tensed forward to poke her guts. Her sweet, soft moans when I hit the top of her cervix.
    “My earrings, where are my earrings?” Katelynn says with a growl, her little feet dragging her in circles around the studio.
    “I can’t find the other fucking hoop!”
    “Dylen ... Hello?”
    I could have told her honestly that I didn’t hear her. I hate to lie, but I did anyways.
    When my bathroom mirror isn’t full of myself, it would probably gossip that it’s seen this before. A crisis of dressing to put on a face fit for the public. She never did find the other hoop. Her exit is a dull door thud. Sober brain can’t remember swapping numbers with her, and my phone has no records of her name. What I do possess is twenty unchecked voicemails dating back two months, six Facebook updates, and eight texts from other people. Sorry. Details get lost in the cadence of my life. What would we do now anyways, date?
    The rest of Saturday is spent surfing the internet and playing video games. Reading that gold just hit $2,000 US an ounce makes uneasy future visions eclipse any relaxation found. Don’t really know what affect that will have on my life, but it sucks anyways. The wealth gap between rich and poor is higher than during the great depression, putting me now into depression. Cat pictures, fucking cat pictures. Reddit made me hate cat pictures. I download some mods for a game that allow me to replace the face textures of some characters. Skyrim was designed by aliens as a human hamster wheel. It takes me two hours just to get it to load properly after thinking my video