Morgo Portnoy was bored. Bored, bored bored.
He’d called in sick, sick, sick, not because he was actually sick, but because even at work he was bored. Bored, bored, bored.
He tried watching television, but everything was lame. Lame, lame, lame.
He went to the fridge, but it was empty, empty, empty, except for some cheese, cheese, cheese.
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He sighed and went back to the couch, couch, couch, and he thought about all his relationship mistakes and felt he could cry, cry, cry.
And then he thought, even if the rent was so damn good, good, good… maybe it was time to move out of this apartment-cave that could read and echo back the last word of all his private thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.
