Sundrip Journals
That skinny old man sounds like a stampede of spooked cattle as he runs across poorly padded carpet
To open a door about to fall off it’s hinges.
I hear it slam and think to myself,
I hate him.
—–
It’s not the slamming door or the way he goes about clueless in his ways that bothers me so. It’s that he reminds me of my sister in some ways because he refuses to say, “You can’t do this to me.”
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