Sorry That You're Dead

It's Dooms Day

This day was doomed from the moment I rolled my sorry carcass out of bed. How could I make such a bold prediction? Well, right before that stupid ass alarm clock woke me from my far too brief, drug induced slumber, I stubbed my toe on the edge of the metal bed rail. Hurts like hell every time it happens, but only on this occasion, I goofed to the point of breaking the skin and drawing blood.

So like a fool on one foot I hopped to the bathroom in search of first aid, dripping blood over the carpet along the way — just more shit for my mother to bitch about. From there it was on to the kitchen, where I stumbled in search of something to calm the growing rumble in my belly, but unfortunately for me, there was nothing going on in this house in the way of food.

Let’s see, the refrigerator was virtually empty with the exception of a quarter carton of milk, expired breakfast sausages, and mixed match condiments. There was cereal in the cupboard, but after laying eyes on that pathetic scene in the ice box, I decided to say the hell with it and fix up a fat joint — the breakfast of true champions.

Everything about this day gave me the blues. The miserable looking clouds in the dull, gray sky. The repulsing aroma of cigarettes, mildew and piss drifting through the house. Everything. Well, almost everything.

Then there was the whole murder thing. Oh yeah — today was the day I officially became a murderer. And seeing how they tend to hand out lifetime sentences for such offenses, I figured my life itself was officially over.