thisisit

He realized that he had become mostly filled with ill will and malice. He would walk home late at night stumbling slightly from the after work drinks and stop to stare at couples dining in restaurant windows.  He would stand mere inches from the glass. When they would look up at his unwavering attention he would then mouth "FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS. FUCK YOU" with more than the socially acceptable amount of direct eye contact.

Later in his apartment, surrounded by half read books, he would sit on the couch his head nested down onto his chest and glare at the radiator. This wasn't quite how he had envisioned filling his time. Occasionally he would get up, walk three times around the room stopping to open half filled notebooks before sitting back down. Eventually he slept.