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SEPTEMBER 12, 1959
The rhythmic clacking that had filled my bedroom made me want to dive head first out my window. Fucking hell, isn't there anything else I can use to type? A groan emitted from my throat. My elbow slipped off the edge of the table and my most feared fear came true. I made a typo.
"Fucking hell. Complete shit," I continued muttering profanities as I busted out the white out out of a broken drawer.
"Uh, I'm off to work. Stop by later?" Diana's voice sounded from behind me.
"If I can get this fuckin' shit finished, then yes."
"Right. Don't yell at the neighbors again. It wasn't very fun dealing with the cops last night."
"Oh, sod off!" I yelled after her while she walked down the stairs.
"Love ya too!"
The deadline was pushing me six feet under and throwing dirt on me. There's a contest for a local paper to write about the changing values of teenagers and mass media. Since this is the shite I like, I decided to enter an article and pray five times a day from there. The prize for the winner was a part time job at the newspaper. It seemed that working for minimum wage at a restaurant wasn't a good way to make money. It also seemed that applying for journalism and creative writing jobs didn't seem effective so far.
I laughed in delight as I removed the paper from the typewriter. I signed my name at the bottom of the second page and dramatically dotted my "i". I skipped in a circle before my feet brought me out of my bedroom door and down the stairs. I fell on my arse on the last step.
"Fuckin' hell," I whined, bringing myself up and unwrinkling the paper. I grabbed my shoes from underneath the bench that no one sits on, quickly putting them on. The rooms blurred as I ran towards the living room, shuffling in the drawers before finding an envelope and putting the paper inside. "Ten Hail Mary's and three praise Jesus's. Christ sake, I should've went to church more." I kissed the envelope before running out of the house, probably not locking the door.
🎶🎵🎶
"'Ello love, fancy a tea?" I jumped at the fake British accent, swiveling around to see my favorite American, apart from James Dean.
"Fucks sake, Dee," I grumbled yet smiled at her. We gave each other a chaste hug before she had to go back behind the bar.
"You mail your article?" I nodded and hummed, but she probably couldn't hear me in the loud club. "Good job my little author."
