Queasy

He managed to get on the last train, and it was still a forty-five minute ride before he got home. Commuting was a drag to Bradley, even though people said it gave you time to get in touch with yourself, balance your checkbook, or read a paper. Well guess what, nobody buys papers these days, only old people use checkbooks, and there is nothing to get in touch with when technology has chewed your brain to bits and spat you out an extension of the computer. Yes, Bradley was in the process of tuning into his evening depression.

A young mother with a three-year-old was sitting opposite him. She was talking softly to her child: “So then we will decorate the tree and Santa is going to bring presents.”

Bradley wanted his life to end right away. Or better yet, he wanted it to begin again, so that he could get a new mother, and maybe this one would do a better job this Christmas. He was an entitled little prick, our friend Bradley.

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