what he does when the parties are all over, and why he tries not to sleep alone
Evan got home early. It's a subjective term that today means exactly 4:20. As a number, it no longer held any significance to him. The tiles felt cold, and he felt his jeans dampen around his knees so he got up, stood,and put his finger down his throat. It was second nature, and kinda sexual. Aim for the middle. Don't touch anything. Thrust. Remove. Repeat. It reminded him of highschool, how he'd finger girls on the train. It was funny that he was doing it to himself. Kinda funnhy. Funny that he used to think that this is what you do to get girls off. Funny is another highly subjective term.
It shot up like a rocket, and hit the top of his throat hard. Too hard. This was the only part where he gagged. He coughed and his throat burned. He tried again. This time he was a fountain. Again, it all came out at once. Some made it into the bowl, some didn't. There was more but he didn't go for it. He swalowed air and forced it back down. He had heard once that stomach acids eat away at the esophagus, and wondered how long it takes. He reached for the toilet paper with his wet hand. There was a sliver of white in the small pool that hit his shoe. It was chewed and undistinguishable but he recognized it as breadcrust. He wiped off the floor, and stood in front of the mirror. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. His mouth hung open. He was a blurry mix of endorphins, which were already crashing, and hate, which had briefly subsided. Otherwise, there was no difference. At least not like he wanted. His beard had grown in a little more since he left. He took a lot of time shaving it, and thinking about shaving. He wanted it to mask his double chin, without looking like a bum.He rinsed his mouth out and spit.
He was drunk and his mind was going in circles.
No matter how many situps I try to do. No matter how many different foods I avoid. No matter how much time I take getting ready, and picking out the nicest clothes that will fit me, which isn't much. No matter how many people I charm, and things I do. It doesn't matter. I'm still him. Just a fat fuck.
He pulled the chain and the light went out. There was a knife on the fridge, he felt his skin quiver, as if there was a breeze, and he put it down. It was too much work for the hour, with too little benefit. He opened the fridge, looked inside and closed it again.
He was right. And no matter how many times I tell myself that he was an asshole and I was right, it doesn't matter. He was still telling the truth. I'm nothing but a fat fuck.
He turned the lights off in the kitchen and the hallway. In his room, the bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor. He grabbed a pillow, and pulled a blanket off the bed, found a nice surface and went to sleep on the floor.
Good night he thought. Everyone always wins but me.
It shot up like a rocket, and hit the top of his throat hard. Too hard. This was the only part where he gagged. He coughed and his throat burned. He tried again. This time he was a fountain. Again, it all came out at once. Some made it into the bowl, some didn't. There was more but he didn't go for it. He swalowed air and forced it back down. He had heard once that stomach acids eat away at the esophagus, and wondered how long it takes. He reached for the toilet paper with his wet hand. There was a sliver of white in the small pool that hit his shoe. It was chewed and undistinguishable but he recognized it as breadcrust. He wiped off the floor, and stood in front of the mirror. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. His mouth hung open. He was a blurry mix of endorphins, which were already crashing, and hate, which had briefly subsided. Otherwise, there was no difference. At least not like he wanted. His beard had grown in a little more since he left. He took a lot of time shaving it, and thinking about shaving. He wanted it to mask his double chin, without looking like a bum.He rinsed his mouth out and spit.
He was drunk and his mind was going in circles.
No matter how many situps I try to do. No matter how many different foods I avoid. No matter how much time I take getting ready, and picking out the nicest clothes that will fit me, which isn't much. No matter how many people I charm, and things I do. It doesn't matter. I'm still him. Just a fat fuck.
He pulled the chain and the light went out. There was a knife on the fridge, he felt his skin quiver, as if there was a breeze, and he put it down. It was too much work for the hour, with too little benefit. He opened the fridge, looked inside and closed it again.
He was right. And no matter how many times I tell myself that he was an asshole and I was right, it doesn't matter. He was still telling the truth. I'm nothing but a fat fuck.
He turned the lights off in the kitchen and the hallway. In his room, the bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor. He grabbed a pillow, and pulled a blanket off the bed, found a nice surface and went to sleep on the floor.
Good night he thought. Everyone always wins but me.
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