Last night, I worked like hell to get asleep. It was an epic battle. Only to have it last but a mere hour and 15 minutes. A little after two, I woke up and realized I had no cat food. And I could not get over the fact I had no cat food. That I would have to go to the store, get some, come back and feed Pru, before I went to work. I realized that I would never get back to sleep in this state. So I got up and went to the store.
When I came home, I fed Pru, even tho it wasn’t really breakfast time. But we were singing the cat food song. it goes like this:
Does it come in a bag?
Is it something crunchy?
Do they call it ‘cat food?’
Then it is for ME!
If you want to hear me sing the cat food song, you have to come to my house and give me $50. Ok, I’ll do it for $20, but you still have to come to my house.
The point of all this is, today’s theme is “3 am.” My fiction to arrive shortly.
Three A.M.
She looked outside the window at the night. It wasn’t snowing outside, but it was storming in her head. Like a snow globe, their conversation had shaken her emotions, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until they all settled, gently, into their new terrain. Everything was different now.
He waited to hear what she thought of his post, She told him it was sweet. He bit his tounge so as not to tell her, she was that landscape.
In the courtroom, it was well known that Andrew MacKinney was the fuckER not the fuckEE: So why were there assholes from the ATF waiting for him in his office when he had only bought “one or two” kilos of blow. “Three, A.M.” his personal drug buying assistant corrected him.
the show had been over for the past 2 hours and the club was only filled with friends of the workers closing the hotspot. how had his hero escaped this time? reminded himself after turning away from the club’s entrance, that he needed to check the next tour dates. deflated, he went home to smoke a bowl and sleep before waking for work in 3 hours.
It was the third hour of the third day of the third month. The three of them sat in a dive bar down on third street.
The bartender says, “It’s 3 am, last call for alcohol”.
Three shots. Three coins tossed into the air. Heads. Damn, I pay the tab.