The story so far:
I scowl into my comfort food. In a few hours I'll be even more depressed than ever, but that ain't nothing half a bottle of Jack won't cure. Maybe some XBOX Live. Perhaps a call to some local escorts who specialize in outcall services cause I aint gonna take no bus all the way to the city just to get jacked off. Sh!t, it ain't even about perversion. It's about needing company, baby! And I don't mean no Holden Caulfield company. I ain't tryin to talk to no one, now. I just need to feel someone. And preferably that feelin' will result in my explosive climax, cause there ain't no better cure for depression than an endorphin fiesta in the brain. Kept me from poppin one too many pill quite a few times, baby, let me tell ya.
The kids laugh at their table without a care in the world. I was there once, back when my body could accomodate daily fast food consumption without falling to complete hell. I was an offensive lineman in high school. I wasn't exactly the picture of Adonis, but I didn't draw stares like two elephants f*cking at the zoo like I do now. I was sort of popular in high school. I wasn't the prom king or any sh!t like that, and I couldn't tag white bitches whenever it struck my fancy, cause that sh!t just didn't happen where I was from. But you better believe I hooked up with a couple fine as$ black b!tches who got wet watching me toss mother f*ckers around on the field. After parties baby! Thems were the days! And then I blew out my knee and my body turned into sloppy pancake batter.
I drank heavily at parties to mask my insecurity. Bitches lost interested in the big black mother who could no longer toss dudes like mosquitos cause he was too occupied with gimpin' around on the tiny a$s crutches that barely held up his double-whopper frame. My friends stopped calling too, if you could ever call them that in the first place. They just liked having me around cause I could toss punk b!tches out of the parties for actin' a fool. Once I was no longer of any service, it was out the door like a punk b!tch myself. Karma baby. It's a hell of a son of a mother f*cking b!tch!
"Hey, didn't you used to play O-line back in the day?" little Chump Change with his friends asked me.
"Yeah I did, so what?"
"My brother was the linebacker. He said you smelled like a wet dog."
Everybody in that dang restuarant chuckled at least a little bit, and most of them didn't even try to hide it. If only I could catch that little punk, I would crush his head like a pumpkin between my hands, and nobody would be laughing no more. They be freaking the f*ck out of their skulls. And I'd do it, too, if only I could catch him. That would be worth going to jail for. Hell, I'm there already. I'd probably have more fun there. I'd get to rest a little. The only people who would stare at me would be people worthy of stares themselves. That couldn't bother me too much.
Then again, they don't serve fast food in prison. Detoxing would be hard. Addiction is a mother, and believe you me, I'm every bit as addicted to this junk as some heroin junkie can't quit tappin the vein, only no rock stars have ever gorged themselves to death on processed beef and cheese. The agony of being me...
"If I could catch you, I'd tear your head off your shoulders."
Momentary caution followed by realization of the circumstances and more laughter.
"Yeah fat man, that'd be the day..."
"Tell your brother I said hi, little man. And watch yo back. I'm gunnin for ya."
"Sorry man, I don't visit fat camp too much, so I doubt I'll be seein ya around..."
"S'that right? We'll see, Chump Change. I'ma make you ma bitch. Stay loose, aight?"
I'd like to leave at this point, but my bulbous form makes for a ridiculous speed limit, and I just couldn't handle listening to those pr!cks cackle at me no more. So I sit there until they get tired of the place and head out. Then I go back to the counter and order more junk. Fast food is my heroin. My mouth is my vein.