Change

This story is a bit more autobiographical than maybe I’d like it to be. A bit more uncomfortable than it probably needed to be. But, here it is. Today, I was looking for something to write, and a prompt from a website that I hate said “Write a story about the first line of your favorite song.”

So, here it is, and a heavily edited but in-faith story of my favorite song. Oh, contains foul language, since I know there are a few of you who read these at work. Might want to not do that, if that’s a problem for you.

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Disgust.

I am truly disgusted with what I wrote today. It’s vile, sexist and disgusting. Someday, I’ll finish it when my esteem is lower. Today? No. It’s terrible. I’m very sorry, but, this paragraph will have to suffice:

The girl in front of me smells funny. A sort of cross between slight rancidity and bile mixed with hopelessness and despair and a touch of whatever the lasest perfume she can afford costs her. Clearly under the hardened mask she wears, she is or at least was once a pretty girl, or at least pretty to someone, if just for a convenient night of fornication and alcohol. Her voice is raspy, breath besotten with the scent PF cheap cigarettes. She hates that she smokes and vows to quit weekly. If she can ‘just get through this week’ she swears to herself for what could be the five hundredth time.

Plan

Once, long ago, he’d had hopes and dreams and aspirations. There were desires and loves, people who mattered. And in a flash, it was gone.

“Want fries with that?” he asked, wanting to kill himself with each syllable.