The slow rumblings of inevitable rebellion were swelling within me, every part of my logic said NO. But the inner machinery of my justification was well prepared for that. I was rebelling against benevolent dictators, people who had taken me in, I was a refugee complaining about the blankets, and I knew that. But that didn’t change the way I felt, it was some sort of weird reverse stockholm syndrome. I can’t play the role of Stepford for too long before shit goes bad.
I lost my right hand, I was in a lot of pain, constantly. No amount of church going bullshit was going to change that. I din’t believe in God, I never have. I just wanted a friend, and I guess that’s how I met Janet.
She was 51 but looked like she was 36, I found out her age by pilfering her wallet and it’s contents and finding her I.D. while she was in the shower (She was also an organ donor). All of this lead into a spiraling debauchery of my despondent love for her, and my callous indifference for everything else.
Because, fuck ‘em.