Damn Pullman Strike! I guess that’s what they’re calling it. I just wanted a damn Twizzler and the store’s on fire. So, I’ll just sit on the stoop and write and complain. There goes Harry, throwin’ molotov cocktails at the coppers.
“Hey, Harry, where’s Billy?”
“I don’t know, man, but-hold on I gotta throw this before it-”
*
I don’t know why I gotta bother people when they do stuff. That how shit gets all messed up. I guess I can go into the store, it being on fire and all.
“Hey Charlie, you got any Twizzlers?”
“Get off your ass and go burn something. Aren’t you sick of being shit on?”
I’m just gonna keep writing. I’m gonna move, Diary, because its hot and i gotta go lay down.