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March 21, 2002
Smith plodded through his blissful, meaningless existence with a string tied round his index. Had no idea what it was doing there. It was uncomfortable, granted. He would’ve felt better had he removed it. (If only for awhile.) But, as it was, the burning dig into his digital flesh drove him to distraction. Not the sort of distraction that was impossible, even hard, to ignore. He could’ve ignored it. But it drove him up the goddamn wall and out the door every night, looking for booze and easy pussy. Which he usually-to-always managed to locate. And enjoyed. But never relished.