It has been two weeks since she left. It has been two weeks of dirty laundry, Yeshiva bagel galore, and towering sticky glasses.
I have declared today the end of my wallowing and so I jumped out of bed earlier than an obnoxious teenage athlete who peeks in their youth with their 5am workouts and their dozens of A's. I was never that student yet I am one of the more successful people in this crummy little town. Anyways, I got myself together this morning only to spiral out of control by teatime.
In the morning I looked rather sharp in a clean suit I bought in a moment of window shopping weakness and I proceeded to walk to work with a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I walked in and gave a half genuine smile to the receptionist and a half-convincing "Good morning." I was determined to 'fake it 'til I make it'.
In the afternoon I looked rather pathetic. My suit had become wrinkled and my face was scowling. I hate my fucking work. I hate my bloody job. I hate lies. I stormed out of the firm and down to the lobby to pout and possibly get a tea.
"Sugar, ya look a bit peckish and a tad frazzled. Is there anything I could git for ya," she asked.
I slowly turned my head to her starred at her blanking. "I fucking want to fucking get the hell out of this small fucking town and I am just bloody pissed at the moment. So unless you can get me a train ride to Luxembourg, London, or hell, even North Korean, then no. There is nothing you could git for me. I want out. I need out."
Then she pitied me with, "Mr.Bagwell is everything fine dear?"
To which I sarcastically replied, "No. Everything is not fine," and dramatically went back to my cubical, tea-less.
Five-o-clock eventually came about and I practically sprinted out of the office and to get home. I got to my door and there was a box signed C.E. with a note saying "DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE OPEN!". Naturally I opened the box and to my dismay it was a picture of me with my fisted hands slicing through the air while my red face puffed out profanity. On the back it read, "'How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours.' - Wayne Dyer".
What a waste of a box.
I have declared today the end of my wallowing and so I jumped out of bed earlier than an obnoxious teenage athlete who peeks in their youth with their 5am workouts and their dozens of A's. I was never that student yet I am one of the more successful people in this crummy little town. Anyways, I got myself together this morning only to spiral out of control by teatime.
In the morning I looked rather sharp in a clean suit I bought in a moment of window shopping weakness and I proceeded to walk to work with a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I walked in and gave a half genuine smile to the receptionist and a half-convincing "Good morning." I was determined to 'fake it 'til I make it'.
In the afternoon I looked rather pathetic. My suit had become wrinkled and my face was scowling. I hate my fucking work. I hate my bloody job. I hate lies. I stormed out of the firm and down to the lobby to pout and possibly get a tea.
"Sugar, ya look a bit peckish and a tad frazzled. Is there anything I could git for ya," she asked.
I slowly turned my head to her starred at her blanking. "I fucking want to fucking get the hell out of this small fucking town and I am just bloody pissed at the moment. So unless you can get me a train ride to Luxembourg, London, or hell, even North Korean, then no. There is nothing you could git for me. I want out. I need out."
Then she pitied me with, "Mr.Bagwell is everything fine dear?"
To which I sarcastically replied, "No. Everything is not fine," and dramatically went back to my cubical, tea-less.
Five-o-clock eventually came about and I practically sprinted out of the office and to get home. I got to my door and there was a box signed C.E. with a note saying "DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE OPEN!". Naturally I opened the box and to my dismay it was a picture of me with my fisted hands slicing through the air while my red face puffed out profanity. On the back it read, "'How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours.' - Wayne Dyer".
What a waste of a box.
Collin I. Bagwell:
ReplyDeletePositives (Phrases, descriptions, imagery)
“dirty laundry, Yeshiva bagel galore, and towering sticky glasses.” good imagery
What kind of person is this character? (physical/personality)
Lawyer, British (bloody hell),
What do you want to know more about, specifically?
More about box
More about woman
What seems confusing?
Are they American?
Objects: a wooden spoon, a pair of pearl earrings, a mustache comb
ReplyDeleteSaying: Isn't that dandy!
Animals: a raccoon, a german shepherd, a black cat
People: A man with a yellow hat, A woman with a mole on her forehead, An old lady who never leaves her apartment