The Worst Part

The worst part, I think, is the constant monotony. There are no realistic changes or challenges. The world, vast and empty, has become a haunted mansion, gray, with splashes of bright crimson. I weep silently in empty rooms, and echoes drift off to silence. There is, or will be, someday, a gigantic dead tree, magnificent, beatiful, and terrifying in its endless sorrow. I can relate. How emo my thoughts must sound, I muse, and think that the irony must be delicious. Emotions would be welcome, if I could deal. Deal, I think as I drop a tab of acid and throw the beautiful woman's arm off of my leg, I cannot. I drink down the tab of acid with diet coke and stare out the window over that cursed city beneath me, spread out like a cancer sore.
"Can I have a hit?" the woman asks me, and I do not look at her, I wave a dismissive hand, I do not care.