Logan Romano took the NHL like a hurricane- dark and brooding.
With his natural talent, brute force and sheer determination, he goes completely unchallenged both on and off the ice.
He's notorious. Both for his success and his stormy personality...
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At 27 years of age, I've finally come to the conclusion that the sun is too fucking bright.
It's loud, obnoxious and demanding. The sun thinks just because it's kinda big and glows- it has free reign to fuck everything up.
The sun is a master manipulator. A con artist. A demon disguising itself in golden paper and prickly warmth.
"Fuck. Off." I grumble to the light streaming in through my floor to ceiling windows. I knew those things were a bad fucking investment.
My microwave pings too loudly, the water my tap is running is way too hot, my dog won't stop scratching at the patio door and my brain is too fried to deal with this shit at 4:30 in the fucking morning.
"So impatient." I complain groggily to Stanley, my 4 month old Irish Setter. He taunts me with a loud bark and wag of his tail.
As the damn microwave continues it's ignorant beeping, I slide off my barstool and unlock the balcony door for him. He runs out with a big grin on his fluffy face.
"Can't you see that I'm in the fucking middle of something?" I shout when the microwave pings again.
Living alone- minus Stanley- may have turned me a little crazy but being this hungover, with that incessant noise invading my sensitive ears, is about to tip me over the fucking edge.
I quickly guzzle down the rest of my piping hot coffee and set out to pour myself another cup when it pings again. "If you make that sound one more fucking time, I swear to shit I-"
Beep.
I scream. I scream into the emptiness of my new apartment like my life depends on it. I scream because I'm tired. I scream because I'm hungover. I scream because I have twenty minutes to get to the rink and I scream because that stupid fucking microwave has just single-handedly ruined my day.
My glare is deadly as I finish shouting into thin air and approach the demonic microwave. It's warm yellow light taunts me and continuously flickers.
"I'm gonna beat the shit out of you." I whisper to it sinisterly.
I grip the handle and rip the door open, revealing a plate of my reheated pizza from a couple days ago. The smell of the delicious food momentarily distracts me from my anger towards the microwave.
But not enough to change my mind; this dumbfuck of a metal box is getting thrown straight off my balcony after practice.
I take the hot plate and set it down on my island counters. I quickly return to my steaming pot of black coffee, instantly feeling more friendly with that bastard we call the sun as the liquid slips down my dry throat.
I can't help but groan in appreciation at the bitterness and warmth, soothing away the long and trashy night I had.
"Erm." A coughs echos off the walls of my empty kitchen. "Am I interrupting something?"
