Chapter Ten
Crushed like an aluminum can onto which no one had been required to place a deposit, the sharpened teeth of the old man’s words had sunken in deeply and had wounded poor Peter rather than serve to anger him. His fingers limped across the keyboard as if they were in fact the slender buckling legs of a teenage porn star after her first interracial gangbang.
He felt tired.
That evening, as his paintings slowly aged upon the walls of his lonesome and dire abode, Peter sat at his kitchen table and contemplated suicide. Then he poured himself a second glass of scotch and murmured, “Fuck this shit. That old fuck was a class a turdtard. Who gives a rat’s ass if I offended his wife? Any fucktard that feels the need to find out what type of 1940’s haircut they may have worn in another lifetime is a downright offense to humanity. Screw ‘em both.” Then he thoroughly enjoyed his drink.
Hope.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that there is no hope, because that is a lie.
Just hang on. Things will get better, you’ll see.