Nov 26, 2018
-- “THAT'S IT,” the door to the back room of wicked brew swings shut as he pushes his way through it, nimble fingers moving to untie the apron around his waist. he tosses it up onto the line of hooks behind the counter onto the hook labeled ‘shea,’ scrawled in his own chicken-scratch handwriting over a year ago when he’d first gotten the job. “i’m goin’ fuckin’ vegan.” he sighs as he splays his hands out over the counter. his shift is over, and he’s more irritated than usual. ( it’s the lack of substances in his system, but he’s trying to ignore it -- he needs to go a full day without it, he tells himself. that’s how he’ll know if he has a problem. ) “----m'tired of feeling like shit every time i eat.”