I am 20 years old and I hate myself.
Every morning I awake to my neighbor's rooster screeching and my baby nephew sobbing in the room next to mine. I do not know why my neighbors have a rooster. We live in an old brick apartment on the outside of Downtown Seattle, not a farm. Perhaps the family of raccoons that live within the vines draped along the side of my building will one day get their revenge from said rooster.
I've named the littlest of the raccoons Joffrey. He reminds me a lot of myself, sitting alone by the fence of my building. I pass him every day on my way home from working at the diner--Beth's Diner, where no one gives a fuck. On the front door of the diner, the manager, Jesse, has displayed a crinkled report from the Department of Health Inspection. Beth's hadn't passed and Jesse didn't care.
(more to come)
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