fuck off, prozac

Look at you. Green and white like a mint in disguise. How I loathe you. You’ve got a nerve showing your face round my way.
The little pill rattles in its dish.
“Come on now Arthur, don’t be like that. We can be so happy together…”
Happy! Oh yeah, you’ll happy me all right, you’ll happy me to death! Five days with you and I’m singing with angels…!
“Don’t you like singing with angels?”
Not when it lands me in the nuthouse, no! Go on, fuck off back to your housewives.
“Look – if this is about the whole anorgasmia thing…”
If? Tell me – what deranged pleasure do you get from sending a boy hypersexual and then watching him plough on like a stick of dynamite that’s never going to explode? Did you enjoy seeing me in that state? Did you get off on it or something?
“Course not…” he slyly sniggers.
Off with you, vile mint! I’m going back to Tricyclics.
He hops back into the bottle, watching me adjust my wooly hat from behind the plastic.


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