Chapter 2.

Read Chapter 1 here. 

I don’t want to go for a walk today. I don’t care if I need the exercise. I just don’t. Mom was cruel naming me after a flower. Iris. Like I enjoy the outdoors? Never. Not even as a kid. Work is tedious and hobbies don’t stick and that guy from the other night never phoned. Screw happy people. Screw them all. (not him, I’m never screwing him again)

“Fine” I shrug as I tie my laces to make my way to the stupid park. About two blocks from home I found an empty  Diet Sprite can lying in the gutter. I kicked it. With every kick I started reciting all the shit that has gone wrong in the past 24 hours. I don’t know, kicking it just made me feel…better. Don’t lecture me about littering. I will throw it away when I am done kicking the crap out of it.

Kick – Work sucks. I am a writer with nothing to write. I have been doing nothing but proof reading other peoples shit and haven’t created anything of my own in nearly 6 month. What kind of writer can’t write?

Kick – I used expired milk in my instant coffee this morning. It tasted like faintly coffee flavoured yogurt. I chewed it.

Kick – I’m fat.

Kick – I got labelled as “plain”. Overheard a conversation between two talentless switch bitches at work today.

Kick – My dog pissed my duvet again.

Kick – I am 27 years old and have never had one day of adventure in my sodding life.

Kick – I’m out of ladies Speed Stick and to bloody broke to afford more so I will smell like Spray and Cook until further notice. It’s the only aerosol I have in the house.

I reached the stupid park. Guess I can’t kick around a can with kids around. The dustbin is about 5 meters away from me under the tree with the platform in it. I recon I can make the shot. Maybe if I do I won’t feel like a complete failure. Maybe I have missed out on a career as a basketball player? Maybe the crowds will go wild. As I fling the Diet Sprite can in the general direction of the bin, I realize I never missed a calling as a sports star. The can swirls through the air and hits a kid smack in the face. Shit. Now the kids crying and I see the dad is livid with me, but I’m frozen. They are making such a racket everyone in the park now knows the little snot face got a can in the face. I know I need to apologize. Profusely even. I want to but it’s like I turned into Helen Keller in the matter of seconds. (except she was brilliantly intelligent and I am notoriously “plain”) I think the kids dad just called me a child abuser. “For God’s sake, it was an empty can. Not a brick” Great, the first words I utter are offensive. This day is going fabulously.

Over-protective Dad drags his crying kid away but forgot about the dog. Maybe it’s not theirs?

Why is he chewing a paint brush?



For Chapter 3 keep an eye on Cupcakemummy’s blog 😉



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