Yeah, well, you know…uh, boy…ummm, that was…that was…uh, that was….I’m sorry, give me a moment to compose myself…I, ummm, I’m just trying to, you know, I’m trying to get my head around this…I don’t know, it’s, uh, it’s just…it’s just really, really…I mean, seriously, Jesus, it’s really hard…that was…that was, well, I’m not really sure, I can’t quite…I cannot quite…I don’t know…I, ummm…
(Walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door; stares disconsolately at the pathetic collection of 20th century condiments and takeout containers of fossilized and mold-frosted Chinese food and then drinks maniacally from a carton of chocolate milk; inexplicably removes his flannel pajama bottoms and shoves them in the garbage pail; sits down on the kitchen floor in his boxers, spits into his palm, and absentmindedly spells out F-U-C-K on the oven door with his index finger. A dog appears in the kitchen doorway and stares at him with a puzzled look on its face.)
(Points at the dog) Tell me the truth: what the fuck was that? Don’t give me that stupid look. That. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. That. That. That. Why do I do this to myself? Seriously, why? I can’t…I cannot take much more of this. I won’t.
Pussies!
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