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He hung up with a growl. Nothing was quite as anticlimactic as angrily ending a call on a touchscreen cell phone.
Adulthood was all about compromises, wasn’t it? You decide what you need, what you want, and shift your priorities around until you find the least bad combination. Each compromise was a link in a chain, and if that chain dragged you down to the bottom of the East River? Well … at least you had Netflix and Spotify to distract you while you sank.
He didn’t know where he was going, he just had to get far away from that fucking cruel pantomime of normalcy, that filthy blood-caked fist which had wrenched into his hair, rubbing his nose in a life that would never be his.
Somedays I think emails are the very worst invention this damn species ever dreamed up.”
Christopher leaned forward, opened his mouth, and emitted a long, thick stream of dark red liquid. It came out in a chunky spurt, like soup from a hose. The gunk splatted onto the hardwood floor, black in the low light. Bizzie stared at it. That didn’t look like normal puke. And it stank like a hot fridge.
