Chapter 1: July 21
What’s worse than having a job making shitty food inside a shitty bar inside a shitty hotel? Getting fired from a job making shitty food inside a shitty bar inside a shitty hotel.
I can see myself in a tub of my own blood as a real possibility. The fear of pain is whittling away into a mildly inconvenient hurdle.
I hate my fucking job. I’m not getting fired, I don’t think, but my negative attitude must shine through me like a beacon. I’m the anchor for team morale.
I did it again today; thought starting a journal might help me figure out what it means; something a doctor can use for some play by play replay.
Maybe Luis has been dropping some illicit drugs into my vodka bottle. I don’t think he’s that devious. He’s been a cool guy, a decent landlord, and roommate.
I’ve been normal and quiet. Something any roommate should cherish. Don’t see why he’d want to upset my day. Unless he thinks he’s improving my day, then maybe we should have a talk.
