I Issue: A Complaint.

21 March 2009

I’ve never come so close to theft in my life.  As I read, my brain feels like its collapsing on itself and churning a green goo into the pockets of my skull.  My stomach does the same, except it churns nothing except the gastric acid that is deteriorating the cells of its container.  Every time I open my door, that open box of Quaker Chewy bars stares at me atop the dresser of my neighbors.  Their room is dark, their door open.  If K– isn’t sitting in the dark working on her homework or if she isn’t using her laptop at her desk behind the door, and if I act in the opportune moment…


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