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Rooting for the Apocalypse — Chapter 3: Shut the fuck up, Lacy


No one really sleeps in the summers here. The neighbors—more neighbors, other neighbors, so many neighbors like eggs in a crate—are having a party. Samantha keeps telling everyone how drunk she is. Lacy used to be crazy in her twenties, like so crazy, but damn her thirties have really mellowed her out. Good for you, Lacy. Derek—are people still called Derek these days?—he’s showing everyone YouTube videos on his phone. Life of the party.

I watch over them. My room juts like a balcony. I am a dictator, addressing a disinterested crowd. I am a silhouette. I open the blinds. They don’t notice. I turn on the lights, revealed. They don’t notice. I think I about yelling at them. Shut the fuck, seems like a pretty reasonable argument. It’s four a.m. I just think it really loud—shut the fuck up. They don’t.

A silverfish crawls across the wall. I monitor his progress.

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