"And what the fuck are you drinking?", it's almost noon and, understandably, I refuse to get out of bed, again. It's been almost five months.
"Maple sap from Quebec. And for once don't attempt to change the subject."
"Leave me the fuck alone you evil cunt... I don't want to..."
"Live anymore, yeah yeah yeah, I hear you," she cuts me off mid-sentence.
I know I haven't at least tried to be creative with my suicidal rhetoric. She takes another gulp of the suspicious drink. As the primary witness of her obsession with expensive waters, I'm afraid the situation is getting quite out of hand. For her well-being I hope the next fad will be water extracted from Mars.
"Get over the little Jap, for crying out loud. He's not even your type -"
"That's exactly the point! He - is - not - my - type." Here, she's rolling her eyes at me.
Finally, I find the inner strength to sit up, "he's unbreakable," and that bothers me.
"He doesn't let you try, this guy is smart. Or gay. Or both."
"Or I'm too weird."
"Breaking news! Miss Cry Baby is allegedly too weird for Mr Kamikaze!"
Don't I hate it when she does that, but it never fails to make me laugh. I run my fingers through my hair, maybe I need a haircut. And a pedicure.
"Get out of bed, you self loathing slab of meat, and get back to work. Those Agent Provocateurs don't pay for themselves."
"Those what? But we agreed..."
"Think about it, Mr Kamikaze will regret never returning your calls," she says, with her trademark evil fucking smile.
"Bitch, a new psychiatrist is what you need," I say, walking to my closet - wondering what I should wear for the day, and when the hell can I make time for a trip to Tokyo.
