Clive Buccatti got up. Clive Buccatti plodded outside. Clive Buccatti decided to start each sentence with “Clive Buccatti” pretty much just to piss off anyone who would want Clive Buccatti to do otherwise. Damn did you see that? Not even using pronouns anymore. Just “Clive Buccatti”. Clive Buccatti wrote…
As the sun shined into the 43rd apartment of Dreamwood Terrace, my eyelids retreated back into my into my skull leaving my freshly dilated pupils to fend for themselves against the harsh light intensified by the reflecting off of the snow that reminded me all too much of my inner…
Man this guy’s pretentious. Skip to something interesting please.
So I decided to go outside. The snow came up to about my waist. Fuck the snow. The monotonous weather event just furthered my hatred for this mundane slum we call a town. I took my first step into the…
Holy shit could you go any slower??? I mean we get it you’re depressed. Literally no one cares. Man depression is so boring. That’s it I’m taking over. Sit back Clive. You can tell the story when it’s your turn.
Alright where were we? Oh yeah. So Clive was walking through the snow and wondering how to further describe how the snow reminded him of how much of a little bitch he was when he noticed a congregation of people inside that shitty diner next to his apartment complex. Now because Clive was such a deadbeat he wasn’t really accustomed to being around people. So he kept moving. He walked over to that little cupcake shop to see if the women he had met that one time was working there. She was. Now Clive was so socially awkward that he found it difficult to talk to his inner demons (no matter how badass they may appear) let alone some hot babe. So he decided to just look at her and continue to wonder where he knew her from. Yes he still had not realized it was *SPOILER ALERT* the girl from that dream he had earlier in that same blog post.
After not realizing the second most obvious plot twist in human history (Next to the resurrection of Christ. I mean seriously? That’s not exactly M. Night Shamalan level stuff) Clive decided to go back to his sad excuse for an apartment. Alright, I guess I’ll let him tell the rest.
The man sat on the floor outside of his apartment with his head between his legs.
“Hello?” I asked. The man looked up at me with a look that I couldn’t quite place as disdainful or bored.
“Hey,” he said in broken Irish accent. I could almost taste the sin dripping off of this man like sweat. Envy. Cowardess.
"What's your name?"
"Cole. Cole Harrison."
“Why’re you sitting out here?”
“My place is being searched.”
“Oh,” I said as the first smile I had had in years started to creep across my face, “Well my place is just around the corner there. Wanna come in for some strawberry waffles?”