Running With Scissors
The first thing I wanted to do when I woke up this morning was to rid myself of the terrible taste in my mouth. I ran my tongue over my teeth. It felt as if someone had slipped tiny socks over each tooth. The sun had yet to peak its head over the horizon. My room was still dark. I tripped over the body lying in the middle of the floor. It made more sense to step over it than to remove it at this point. "After my shower," I muttered to myself as I slipped through the b
edroom door to the bathroom, avoiding the loose floor boards that squeeked so I wouldn't wake my roommate. No sense getting him involved.
"She had it coming," I convinced myself spitting into the sink. "Those were MY fillets." I held my razor up, remembering only then just what I had used it for the night before. "I look good with a beard anyway," I thought, running a hand aver my stubbly neck. "MMMMM," that feels nice I said, raising the razor to my own flesh, "that feels real nice . . . "