cyola

Still a bit wobbly after all that sleep, you wander up the hallway to the bathroom and turn on the water for a long, hot shower. It’s the nicest feeling you’ve had all week.

You’ve had a hell of a time lately. Your love life, once the source of much pride, has deteriorated seemingly in less than twenty-four hours. You thought you had good communication with your girlfriend; obviously you were wrong since she’s been bumping some dude from her job. He’s twice her age, too. You’d almost prefer that she’d gone gay. At least then you could have jerked off thinking about her escapades.

Speaking of jerking off, you’re not doing it in the shower today like you normally do because you’re so tired. If you’re that tired you’re in pretty sad condition. Nobody’s giving you anything but shit lately, and you’re sick of it. So you decide right now... today is your day.

Fittingly enough, you hear your last name called just then from outside. It doesn’t take much skill to recognize the voice -- Archie, the stupid paperboy. You owe him some money, but so what? He’s a loser. You step out of the shower for a moment to examine the window and see him circling the house below, occasionally tossing a pebble or two in a vain attempt at grabbing your attention. How stupid of him to assume you spend all your time downstairs. Probably some veiled insult.

You hate this bastard. Should you see what he wants, or continue with your shower?