Breathing deeply, walking backwards

I awaken shrouded in a thick veil of sweat. 3:10. I can feel the sunlight breathing on me through a closed window, the blinds translucent. Above, the background rhythm of my ceiling van remains eternal, letting the sounds of the world weave melodies around it. Definitely time to wake up. I pull my sticky legs together and sit up . Christ, its fucking hot. Somebody is grilling bacon somewhere close. Who the fuck makes bacon at 3:10 p.m. on a Thursday? I languidly gaze towards my nightstand. Amidst the bottles and various scrapbooks of time, I spy a pack of lucky strikes. Two left. I quickly steal one from the soft cellophane "box" and pat my nonexistant pockets habitually for a lighter. No dice. I'm in boxer briefs. What happened last night? The piercing silence lays down a tune over the fan. I bail to the kitchen and take out some bacon to make. Why is turkey bacon so much more expensive? Its a leaner meat, so technically it weighs less and should cost more. Thank god for the food stamps. God? No... thank myself for the food stamps. The blonde on the couch makes a soft groan and rolls back to sleep. Its hot and I imagine rolling over on a leather couch to be at least a little irritating. Must still be drunk. Of course she is, its 3:10 in the fucking afternoon. I hate cooking bacon. The reason I get turkey isn't because its healthier, no; I've got enough unhealthy habits to undo a marathon runner's regimen... I get turkey bacon because it spits less. You know... it doesn't throw grease on your knuckles or bare feet. And the pan is just a LITTLE easier to clean. I survey the fridge for an aid to my immediate thirst and find only a water faucet. Is it the first of the month yet? Not even close. I hate tap water. Not even any ice, either. Who is this girl on the couch? I really wouldn't even let her sleep with me? She really means that little to me? I guess in my intoxication, I didn't want her to be synonymous with a name that means something to me. A relic from my past. Ancient history resurfacing. But hey now that its morning, fuck it. I scoop her up and carry her to my bed. 5'3" and thin, a monument to vulnerability. Where did she go astray to wind up sleeping on the couch of a retch like me? She's pretty enough to be staring at me from a billboard. And naked enough to be taunting me from a news stand. Its too hot to function, so I stop functioning. I tip up a bottle of Popov, and my guilt vanishes. Livin cheap ain't easy man... I guess I'll always be wringing out the American dream before I soak it in gas and strike a match. She deserves better, so I give her better... I scoop her up again and put her on the bench outside my complex.... Anything is better than this...