Yes, I hear you, tromping around your apartment on an urgent
mission to calm down the wildebeasts that live with you. Sometimes I think your
actions only urge the clomping beasts on.
You sometimes drop toys off the balcony, and trek outside to
get them back. The time you went to get a ping pong ball and tried to hit it up
to your balcony while I was sitting RIGHT THERE was awesome, The way the ball
bounced off the window behind me.
I hate you, stupid 10 year old kid. I absolutely hate you.
Every time I go out on the balcony to have a smoke, you run
to the door and yell “stupid smoke” and slam the door shut. Lean closer, I have
a secret.
I only smoke for you now.
I don’t smoke unless I’m at home, on the balcony, and able
to slowly give you cancer. I don’t smoke at work. I don’t smoke out and about.
But first thing in the morning, and at home in the evening, I want to slowly
kill you.
I could play loud music, but I’m not a fan of loud music
myself, and it would hit the innocent neighbors next door. Smoke has a
wonderful directional quality. I can take a deep breath and shoot it right up
between the slats of your balcony.
I actually planned to quit this week now that I’m working
full time and life sucks a lot less, I don’t need it to just get through the
day without wanting to harm things. Funny, now instead of keeping me from
hurting myself and others, I’m smoking to hurt you, you little shit.
Life was great for the three months before you moved in. With
you menagerie of elephants, wildebeasts, and ponies.
Some day, I’ll come up with a machine that smokes the
cigarettes for me. Just for your pleasure. Until then, please breathe deeply.
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