lost loser, no hope, no future

"That bitch, that awful fuckin' bitch" he cried out as he waded through a puddle of his own vomit. He didn't care about stepping in vomit. You tend to not care about what when you step in when you are wearing boots the size he was. He wasn't calling his wife some outlandish name because he had thrown up in front of the fridge again, but because she had drank nearly all of the milk that was left in the carton. Leaving him with not enough for his oatmeal and too much for his tea. "Thieving cunt" he wailed as he hurled the nearly empty carton of milk across the living room where it collided with the television, simultaneously turning it on. What he saw blaring on the screen brought an onslaught of emotions. Margaret Thatcher's face was covered in 2%. She was droning on and on about the political state of the economic recession, or the economic state of the political recession, or perhaps both, and how they work together to form a matrix of confusion that will forever keep the poor and unintelligent occupied while the rich and brilliant fingerbang the working class just to see them quiver. He had always thought he hated Margaret Thatcher. Always thought she was out to get him. To get the world. But as he saw her face covered in 2% he was fascinated, enraged and burning but intrigued none the less. He grabbed a pint from the fridge and lit a cigarette. When he was ready to ash for the first time he realized there was no ashtray to be found. "Motherfucker" he mumbled to himself and started pouring the bitter down his throat at breakneck speed. When you need to ash, you need to ash. As he finished he smashed the empty can against the side of his head the way he had seen some burly skinhead do the night before down at the pub. The can partially crumpled and fell to the floor as the man passed out. He woke up three hours later with an awful burn on his forearm and a feeling that he needed to take a more pro-active stance on politics.

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