More broken bottles and wet carpet. I hate these fucking carpets. Stains and bacterial stench. When I have the energy I'm gonna rip out this hideous material and lay down some polished wood. Something you can slide on. Maybe come spring.
Sara's gone off again. Screams in the shower. Torn panties. Hate scrawled on mirrors in lipstick. She hisses and throws ashtrays at my head. A less patient man would've chained her to the sink by now. But I love her. Violence is Sara's medium. Her art. I'd sooner piss on Picasso than raise a hand to her.
Last night, this pseudo-French fag tried to sweet talk Sara. She smiled with widened eyes, leading the jerk into her maze. I don't know what he expected, but I'm sure it wasn't what he got. All I heard from him were rushed prayers to a god who didn't give a damn. Sara's cackle drowned out some of his cries, but enough got through to dance to. Sara feeds my desire for music. She always plays our song.
Crows are Nazis. Yesterday a flock of these assholes tormented a pregnant squirrel. Swooped down pecking her blind side, cawing their ignorant language. She tried fighting them off, but was overmatched. I threw bottles at them; they laughed in my face. Like raccoons, crows just don't give a shit. They stare at you with serial killer eyes, confident that you'll fold. The fuckers somehow know.
Stabbing trees is a young man's game. So is speaking in tongues. When older men jabber on their knees, claiming divine presence, you can only shake your head in pity. NASCAR's less poisonous.
Stuffed animals steal my oxygen. They breathe between shadows but never exhale. Sly bastards. I'm on to them.
Sara came home late. Broken heels. Cognac reek. Mumbling. I know better than to ask. My lack of concern feeds her desire for me. Punishment as reward. My god answers prayers.