Do You Have Any Lotion?
I woke up angry. I always wake up angry. I eat my breakfast toast angry. I get dressed angry and put on my makeup angry. I adjust my hair angry. I reapply one of my damn press-on nails that always falls off in my sleep. Somewhere in the hill of sheets is a mountain of lost press-on nails. I don’t drink coffee or tea or juice. I don’t need a morning pick-me-up because I’m wound up from the start. Anger is my morning fuel and I love how it tastes. It makes me happy.
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches. She was wearing a pair of dirty blue jeans and a red, cable knit sweater with white snowflakes across her chest. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a freshly lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her graying blond hair was disheveled like she had leapt out of bed in a rush. “What’re you saggy raccoon tits doing here?”