Could it be that living with an artist was even worse? by Bogdan Dragos

“I’ve seen people on

their death beds

more alive

than you,” she said. “The

day my grandpa

died

I’ve seen more life

than in your room. At least

he fought back, he

wanted to keep death

away for

as long as possible. He

was 87,

and you’re in your twenties,

looking like

you’re not only inviting

death to take

you, but

downright begging it!

What the fuck’s the

matter with

you?”

“Uh… I don’t

know,” he said

“And that’s your

answer to everything!”

“Well, it’s

true.”

“Ah, take a good look

at yourself. But

what am I saying, you

sleep 18 hours

a day

and spend the rest in

bed. It’s a wonder

you even

remember your name.”

He thought for

a bit

and then he asked, “What?”

It shot a flaming

arrow of

pure rage through her

heart. She raised

her hands high

above her head