One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

Morgan moves back to the familiar charms of his fiery days when he still felt something. No longer. Morgan's like a slave. Three feet of paper and a family of four. Morgan wonders why his wife is so slow. Blames his wife for his slow love. He shakes his head in dissapointment as he climbs into bed. Grits his teeth as he moves between the sheets. Morgan feels like a sudden insane laughter when he sees.
EXCELLENT!
He doesn't sleep much on account of a terrible pain in his head; sometimes he sits up in the loft late at night reading from a book of children stories.
Now listen! Well I'm not trying to question your decision. In my opinion you've made an excellent choice! I don't want to put the doubt in your mind because in my head you're just one excellent choice!
Jaws no ordinary sucking harder, sagging eyelids and pocked cheeks. Intelligent, the television buzzes and crackles and preaches. Morgan feels like his family have made a conscious effort to cause him misery. His taste buds have deserted, sneaking away from his wife's cooking. Morgan dreads the family meal, clenching one hand under the table. The bland wall hangings nod at the food in recognition. They are far too familiar with one another. Morgan's work for minimum wage is no comfort whatsoever.
He thinks about the items that have sapped his money over the years: shoe polish, oven cleaner, vacuum bags, sugar substitute. A pathetic collection of unwanted gifts and dream-sapping commerce. Any creative reserves once stored are long gone. Morgan seethes at the realization he has given his children too much of the little he has. Morgan wishes his family dead.

Aww! Well listen, now I'm not trying to alter your opinion. I'm so happy that you've finally found your voice! I don't want to put the doubt in your mind because in my head you're just an excellent choice.
Lacking imagination, and full of despair, Morgan turns tail and leaves without a word.
The door shuts compliantly as he moves outside. Morgan crunches down the path with regular, driven feet, pushing through the grey clouds escaping his mouth. Approaching the train tracks, he sighs, lays flat across the line, and shuts his eyes.
Well done, sir! Well done, sir! WELL DONE!

I figured that after a couple years of sob stories, cheesy jokes and limitless exaggeration, you'd all get tired of reading my damn stupid fatherfucking blog. It wasn't enough? As it turns out, my ratings are only suspiciously high when I blog about life's depressions and the many whips to the back that I receive from trying to get by. So there you go, an exclusive look into the literary mind of Alicia Flores. We all need some sort of escapism!