by Crom

Every time I open the drapes I see the same god damned thing. That ugly ass swing set in the toxic waste park outside my window. If I cracked it open, even a little, I’d hear it’s creaking all the way up here. All the way up to the seventh floor, my private abode from hell. The day is one of those grimy pre-spring days, when all the grass is visible from the warmth, but dead and brown from a lack of sun and water. The streets are filled with gravel and dust, thrown up into the windows of each car. The sunlight that streams in through the windows doesn’t seem real, like a group of stage hands are shining their lights into my apartment, dull and lifeless light.

Tendrils of menthol smoke creep upwards to the roof, hanging there like smoky bats. I hate menthols, Christ, but someone left the pack here and I’ve got no money for smokes. The room stinks of old, oily smoke, because the ashtrays in the room are all full. Full to the brim, confusing me with their fullness?who the fuck smokes this much? It isn’t me. I light another smoke. My coffee tastes like liquid shit, but it’s a day old, and micro waving it doesn’t bring back the rich, Columbian texture I’m suppose to be enjoying. If I had a few more bucks I’d buy new grounds, but I guess I’ll just filter these for the fourth time and add sugar. I can probably squeeze another few cups out of them, even if it’s colored water.

I hear Wendy shuffling around upstairs, probably coming out of a beer coma, finally waking up after last nights drinking binge. I heard her come home at 3, and begin purging, didn’t think a girl that small could puke that much. Then again, I figured that a poly-sci major would be smart enough not to get themselves into a mess like that; I guess proportional representation and alcohol poisoning aren’t so similar after all. Christ, we’ve got no food in this place. This box of saltines has been my only escape the past two days, and we’re almost out of frozen orange juice. Think I saw a pack of spaghetti way in the back of the cupboard the other day, but that’s it, guess anything tastes good with enough hunger. Might have to make rock soup again. Christ I hate menthols.

I feel like I’m taking stock of an internment camp, checking all the supplies, counting all the stores. We’re almost out of toilet paper too; luckily we got some paper towels someone left during our Christmas party here. Maybe we should have another party, ask people to being dips and chips, at least then we’d have something to eat. Chris and Sandy always bring a bunch of junk from M&M’s, stuff that no one really wants to eat anyways, I mean Christ, how many stuffed jalapenos can one person eat? Plus Sandy always tells me about the shit her mom gives her about changing her major two years ago, like it makes a god damn difference now. Like I’m the dean of students or some shit.

I hear that goddamn swing through the window now, must be some kids playing on it. Those miserable little shits from 3B, that always run up and down the god damn halls Saturday mornings, screaming like death is chasing them. I swear, one more day and I’m just going to open the door into their faces. Sure enough, there they are on that swing, creaking away. One day the chains going to bust and leave one of them face down in the dirt, god I should find my camera. Get Wendy to go down and give them a push, make sure they’ve got a head of steam before the break, see how far they fly. Sweet crying in my ears…

Christ I hate menthols.

  • Menthols
  • by Crom
  • Published on April 1st, 2004

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