auf literarisch jesacht: what i suffer for that small bottle of spunk.

schön, dass das mal wieder einer aufschreibt. es geht einem ja ständig so, nicht wahr?! oder sind sie das etwas, das sich da aufdrängt? sagen sie mal…

What sort of life is this? Do they read a sign on my forehead or what? I’ve grown a beard my children hate and it doesn’t change a thing. Let there be five hundred people on the street, I’m the one the beggar with the sad story will pick! I’m the one who will miss his plane while listening to the man who lost his bus fare and needed a bail-out. Why can’t I kill an hour at the bar without the club drunk harrassing me? Look at this slob! Stationery Stores indeed! What sort of life is this? A thirty-year old chartered accountant, and I don’t even have the guts to tell a tramp to piss off and leave me alone. There’s nothing more to it. I’ll just have to try another bar. This is ridiculous. The sort of inconvenience I suffer for want of a small bottle of spunk! This is just ridiculous!

Chuma Nwokolo Jr., ‘Accounting for Drunks’


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