There he was again in the same-old familiar situation. Frank sat alone in his dark, deranged apartment. He listens to Radio Head when he's in a mood like this. Flicking his lighter impatiently, he raises it to his mouth to light the joint in his hand. Pleased to see the familiar ember glow, he inhales. Life is good again. He's dancing with the only girl he ever learned how to dance with...Mary Jane.
Radio Head blares from his old record player with new vinyl on it. All is well. The neighbors won't care. They should be out of town by this time, and if they're not? Fuck em'.
A plume of smoke is exhaled from his mouth. It engulfs his glasses, which have a thick black rim and square glass lenses. He thinks he's emo and too callous for the outside world to understand. He's too cold to care. Or at least, that's the way he wants to be viewed. His whole life has been spent creating a facade that he thinks he needs to live up to. Too many movies and reality TV shows have infected an otherwise nice person. Being a pretentious prick has become a way of life and not some sort of off-and-on character luxury he used to be able to afford when he was younger.
This is who he has become. He tells himself that things can change, but now is not the time.
He wants the girl. He wants the money. He wants to go to a party and he wants to be as svelte as James Bond and dance like Fred Astaire. It may never happen. But it isn't quite out of the realm of possibility when he's alone...in his apartment. There's no one here to tell him he can't do or be what he desires. There are no limits to who he can be. And as always, he likes it. This is what he lives for.
Frank has plans though. He's a thinking man, a true prophet. He tilts his head back to rest it against his dark brown recliner and thinks that tomorrow will be different...maybe.