Joe stared across towards the mess of coffee and plastic in his microwave and decided that leaving his sub-par dwelling would be his best bet at retrieving the life giving sustenance of...
If there was one thing that needed to be done, it was getting coffee or some pure liquid caffiene of some sort into his system. He briefly pondered if the creepy guy behind the counter at Starbuck's knew how to hook him up intravenously to a coffee drip then figured by the craters that weirdo sported, he undoubtably knew how to find the right vein.
Shaking his mind clear of the somewhat disturbing mental image he left the depressingly dank confines of his kitchen, his right foot catching momentarily against the linoleum and making a hideous squeak that made him stop dead in his tracks. His toe now hurt.
Of course it did, he didn't have caffiene yet, and the entire day, every living, breathing, empty second of existence paining him since he had awoken; hung over, sexually frustrated,' niccing' out, and over all, not ready for anything. Plodding up the stairs in long drawn out thuds up the thinly carpeted stairs; he headed towards his bedroom, his somewhat brownish white socks muffling his movements, which only amplified the enormous creaks of his stairs.
Joe looked down at his sock-clad feet as another cacophonous creak ripped through the narrow stairway leading upstairs. He wondered if this is why Poe hated stairs so much, maybe he was hung over after writing his latest foray into the macabre literature he was so well known for, after hiding from his mother in that tiny house. Another creak, good lord another creak...
Scrunching up his bleary, bloodshot eyes, he finished going up the stairs after what seemed far too long, wishing that the Jetsons had more impact on his present circumstances and had blessed him with moving walkways. Instead he kicked open the door to his bedroom and was instantly crippled by daylight, using every fiber in his being not to hiss in vampiric agony as he staggered in the room.
With his bed flirting with him out of the corner of his eye he rummaged through the pile of clothing on his floor, giving the occasional eye catching garment the sniff test to determine it's eligibility for parole from it's clothing purgatory. With a shrug he threw on a simple black ensemble of wrinkled clothes and headed back downstairs, passing obliviously past the garbage he had set aside earlier.
The sun beat down upon him mercilessly causing his brows to furrow against the light, he immediately began second-guessing his decision to wear all black, but simply sighed after decided that he was too far along his epic journey of survival to turn back now.
Spotting the bus stop outside his small house he wandered over to it casually, his gaze downcast at the broken up pavement of his unkept street; with a startled flash he suddenly realized that he was now off the bus and at his destination already, standing in front of the strip mall where they knew him as a coffee allumni,
Maybe it was far too many years of binging on drugs and alcohol, or maybe it was a lack of short term memory, also caused by too many years of drug and alcohol abuse.
Fuck me sideways you evil bastards, he bitched to himself as he spotted an enormous, caffeine deprived mob. Listless but filled with an enormous amount of bitter energy, it was the lunch rush, and surely hell was raking in the payments as all involved in the whole process suffered.
#3: Que it