One Offs: Random Rambles of a Crazed Fool

Not for Me

'I am in a mood, you know?'

I nod in response to myself as I look at my dark reflection in the flatscreen. It perfectly mirrors my actions while I suspiciously watch myself adjust into the couch cushions. Normally, I hate change. I hate something new. I would rather keep doing the same old things knowing all the possible outcomes rather than try something that leads me to the unknown. Like now, I am waiting for something unknown to reflect at me on the screen. Nothing will. I know for a fact my place isn't haunted, but that isn't stopping me from wanting something to happen now.. right at this moment.

'Staah-pit,' I huff at myself, not allowing my gaze to move from the dark screen. 'You're just bored.'

Of course, I am bored. And admittedly, I want something to do. Really, I want someone to do it with.

With a sigh, I move my gaze from the flatscreen at the same time I move off the couch, stomping into the kitchen. My tongue darts out of my mouth sliding over my bottom lip, hanging out in the corner of my mouth, while I dig around in my "snack cabinet." A popcorn box is found and tossed in the microwave. The sweet smell of kettle corn fills the space before floating into the adjoining living room. Before I can realign my butt to the permanent dent in the center of the couch, someone knocks at the door. Annoyance flows through me, and I toss the remote back on the couch.

'The audacity,' I mutter, those "wanting to do something" feelings fizzle out in a second. A notification from WebMovies told me about a new serial killer documentary. It caught my interest, and it was definitely better than surfing the menu for something to watch for nearly an hour just to settle on something that I have already seen like a thousand times.. *cough* Robot saves humanity. *cough*

I shuffle to the door dragging my bare feet on the carpet, hoping whoever would give up knocking. But no. The knocks keep coming, heavier and harder, eventually turning into pounding. Annoyed, I flip the deadbolt and yank open the door. A tall person angles their motorcycle helmet toward me, and slams open the black visor. The man's expression is unamused as he looks at me with a grimace. His voice rumbles fast with a heavy accent.

'That will be $48.32,' he says holding up a bag of food from Fried Errythang.

My eyes move from the bag as a new extension of his long arm to the patch on the left side of his chest - GrubNGo: Food Delivery. Slowly my gaze moves up to the face of the delivery boy, really looking at this.. handsome.. moron.

I can't really see the color of his eyes or even his eyebrows for that matter. Any person could see his beauty, but I don't linger on that. Only the fact my popcorn is now cold. I grimace back at him when he grunts, clearly losing patience with me staring at him, and shakes the bag.

'That's not for me,' I point out, coldly and flicking my eyes between his now mad expression and the bag.

'Look, I don't care who it is for,' he starts, through gritted teeth, 'but you owe me $48.32.'

'Obviously,' I counter, crossing my arms over my pudgy chest and leaning into the door jam, 'you forgot how to read and comprehend the English language, dork. So, I'll excuse you this time. That isn't for me.'

His eyes widen, then narrow. He lets out a slew of curses at a quick speed that my brain can't keep up and doesn't let me process where I could even pick up the language other than it coming from somewhere far East. Instead of trying to make it clear to this moron that I didn't order this food, I look at the receipt stapled to the bag.

'Idiot,' I mutter, then louder say, 'You have the wrong apartment. This says 3061 and take a guess where you are?'

He rolls his eyes and follows my free hand that is pointing to my door. The numbers of 6031 on the door just below the peephole. His head snaps toward me again and his eyes widen. Quickly, he takes the bag and stuffs it back into the thermal bag on the floor.

'I say you owe me an apology.. but forget it. Someone is clearly missing their food.'

Without another word, the delivery boy speedwalks in the direction of the elevator. I happily, and sadly, watch him go. 'Those jeans were painted on,' I mutter aloud still lingering in the door jam, marveling at how tight that fabric was stretched across his ass.

No wonder, I think on the other side of the closed and locked door. All that walking he does has to work on those long legs and round ass.

I look down at myself. I got the shape of a slime ball squeezed through netting - a hot mess. Do I care? Yes, I won't lie. There is a deep part of my depression that worries the hell out of me being out of shape, but it doesn't care enough for me to get out of my habits. Shaking my head, I settle back on the couch and start the documentary, munching on cold popcorn.