Jeremy watched his wife drive their remaining car off into the distance, feeling more hopeless each second that passed.
How had this happened, how is it his life could've possibly reached an even lower point after he committed the big oof?
Jeremy turned around and went back towards the house. He felt as if he had been beaten to a pulp and crammed into a sealed bag, his wife had left him, and he was suffering from a mid-life crisis.
At least things couldn't possibly get worse, could they?
Jeremy grabbed the doorknob to go back inside. The knob didn't move.
"Excuse me what the fuck, is the door fUCKING LOCKED?" Jeremy shouted, and proceeded to kick at the door repeatedly.
Billy screeched in incomprehensible rage over the voice chat as he lost his eighth game in a row of Call of Duty.
In the midst of his rage, he threw his controller across the room and kicked the TV, making an unnecessarily large amount of noise and spreading broken glass across his bedroom floor.
It took a little more than half a brain cell and about 10 seconds of processing time for Billy's brain to realize what he had done.
His mind eventually came to the logical conclusion that
If the TV is broken, you can't be a fucking loser.
If you can't be a fucking loser, something isn't functioning correctly.
Billy sat in silence, mourning the loss of his TV and trying to figure what the hell he was supposed to do. But that silence was interrupted after mere seconds by someone pounding on the door.
YOU ARE READING
Ketchup.
Short StoryLittle Billy lived a simple life. Unlike most couples of their time, his parents were still together, though it hardly took anything more than an observant child to figure out that their marriage was on the verge of falling apart.
