No Compassion

I'm at an unfamiliar bar. The obese, crusty old man behind the counter sneers and gives me shit as I try to close out the tab on my credit card. I fantasize about coming back and throwing a Molotov cocktail through the window later.

Sometime after that I'm chitchatting with a girl in my AP English class. It's the beginning of our senior year in high school, and I am completely unmotivated. She one-ups my school angst by reminding me that both of her parents were killed in an accident a year ago. She's certainly getting a lot of milage out of that, I think to myself.