Loser

 

He seemed to come out of nowhere. “You snooze you lose, fuck-face!” he yelled at me and punched me solidly in the head. He then grabbed the good stuff – which I had been gloating over in a bit of a daze  – right out of my grasp and made off with it at a run, laughing as he went. All I could do was watch him make off with it, his taunts ringing in my ears. This made me more angry than I can say because I had wanted that good stuff for me. Its mine not his, the bastard, I thought. I couldn’t believe that he had taken it off me. That good stuff was mine by right. The more I thought this the angrier I got. I remembered how wonderfully good the good stuff was and how fantastically great it had made me feel to have it and this made me terribly terribly angry. It made me extremely angry, immensely angry, inordinately angry. I was incandescent with rage. I felt like exploding. My rage was like a ball of white-hot molten iron lodged in my stomach. I wanted to vomit up this ball of rage all over the world. I wanted the world to know how angry I was. I wanted to hurt somebody. Then after a while I gradually started to quieten down in myself and I became sad instead of angry. I really was a loser, I realized – I was just a sad pathetic loser and I didn’t deserve to have the good stuff. That guy was right to take it off me…

 

 

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