My name is Enoch Jackson Angstrom, but people call me Nick. Actually, nobody calls me that because I don't have any damn friends. People call me Enoch, E-Notch, Eunich, E-Knock, but never just Nick. And before you ask, yes, my parents hated me.
Why the past tense, you ask? Well, maybe they still hate me, but they'd have to talk to me to really relay that kind of emotion. My father is my boss and still never talks to me. Big shit down at the Angstrom Buy-n-Save. He wears cufflinks. At a grocery store. With the douchey rabbit logo we use to promote our sales. I drew that damn rabbit back when I was in seventh grade. Too bad my dad's an asshole and "colored the damn thing gold, you didn't think of a gall darn gold rabbit when you drew that, did you boy?" Right dad. All yours. And my mom. Well, I love my mom. Too bad she lives in Tuscaloosa and can't by law leave the state. And what am I going to do, quit this sweet gig as produce assistant manager? I'd be "throwing my life and the family name away." The classy Angstrom name. Fucking rabbit.
I'm pretty much a fuck up most of the time. At least that's what everyone who doesn't call me Nick says. I have a few friends. Well, people that I occasionally talk to at work, or see around town. Never at my house. Never at theirs.
When I graduated high school, I really thought I might be able to get out of this shitbox and go to college. Wrong. "I didn't go to college, and I own a damn store, Easy." Oh yeah, my fucktard dad calls me Easy. NICK dammit. Can someone call me by something that doesn't make me sound like I give handjobs at the bus station?
So here I am, stocking zucchini, slicing melon, and shucking fucking corn. All so the fine people of Updike, Indiana can have clean produce for their precious family dinners. I usually eat some orange chicken from the deli and maybe if I'm feeling spicy I'll have some baby carrots. Great fucking life.
Then again, college might not have been for me. Like I said, I screw shit up a TON. Just last week I toppled over a pallet of corn crates. Wooden, wet crates with silky, green corn all over the floor. It took me 5 times to get my driver's license. I've been on 4 and a half dates in my life. I probably don't even jerk off properly, considering I never hit the kleenex and I usually end up with a stomachache when I'm done. But there is one thing I've always been fucking stellar at: whistling.
Why the past tense, you ask? Well, maybe they still hate me, but they'd have to talk to me to really relay that kind of emotion. My father is my boss and still never talks to me. Big shit down at the Angstrom Buy-n-Save. He wears cufflinks. At a grocery store. With the douchey rabbit logo we use to promote our sales. I drew that damn rabbit back when I was in seventh grade. Too bad my dad's an asshole and "colored the damn thing gold, you didn't think of a gall darn gold rabbit when you drew that, did you boy?" Right dad. All yours. And my mom. Well, I love my mom. Too bad she lives in Tuscaloosa and can't by law leave the state. And what am I going to do, quit this sweet gig as produce assistant manager? I'd be "throwing my life and the family name away." The classy Angstrom name. Fucking rabbit.
I'm pretty much a fuck up most of the time. At least that's what everyone who doesn't call me Nick says. I have a few friends. Well, people that I occasionally talk to at work, or see around town. Never at my house. Never at theirs.
When I graduated high school, I really thought I might be able to get out of this shitbox and go to college. Wrong. "I didn't go to college, and I own a damn store, Easy." Oh yeah, my fucktard dad calls me Easy. NICK dammit. Can someone call me by something that doesn't make me sound like I give handjobs at the bus station?
So here I am, stocking zucchini, slicing melon, and shucking fucking corn. All so the fine people of Updike, Indiana can have clean produce for their precious family dinners. I usually eat some orange chicken from the deli and maybe if I'm feeling spicy I'll have some baby carrots. Great fucking life.
Then again, college might not have been for me. Like I said, I screw shit up a TON. Just last week I toppled over a pallet of corn crates. Wooden, wet crates with silky, green corn all over the floor. It took me 5 times to get my driver's license. I've been on 4 and a half dates in my life. I probably don't even jerk off properly, considering I never hit the kleenex and I usually end up with a stomachache when I'm done. But there is one thing I've always been fucking stellar at: whistling.
