He sat looking at his glass.
With a trembling hand, he managed to drain the remains of the second bottle of twelve-year-old scotch whiskey into it. With difficulty, he brought the tumbler to his lips. He sipped shakily as he pushed through his inebriated state to reflect upon the incident that brought him to his present malaise.
He considered that it would take a defrocked Jesuit priest with a predilection for sky-diving, who was an avid fan of reality tv, hated Mexican food, had a sister that he never talked to, had ongoing issues with a fungal infection of his toenails, who was born by Caesarean section under the sign of Capricorn, on a Wednesday morning during a violent storm, and whose dog got run over outside a pawnbrokers shop, that later closed down on account of the owner being arrested and jailed for a series of local burglaries…
…only someone like that could even come close to properly understanding the way he felt when the girl in the laundromat told him to get lost.