Morning

Mad ankle boots destroy the symmetry of my perfect gravel driveway. Two of them come, destroy my oblivion sure as fuck. I peer, roused. Eight fucking am. Fear. Awake as ever now I grab at dressing gowns, slippers, yesterdays roughly cast aside office wear, anything. Throwing myself down the stairs, dodging the omnipresent cat, not slipping and breaking every bone in my spine is a feat to behold, if ever there was someone to behold it. Barely more than brain dead I answer the door to be greeted by an apologetic young man wearing short pants. I blink at him. Casting his gaze to my newly fucked up driveway he mumbles at me;

“Ms. Davidson, package”.

“I was sure that there were two of you fuckers”, I hope I don't say out loud.

“You just need to sign it. I'm sorry to disturb you, doctor” he replies.

“Ah, he thinks I've been on call, thinks I'm a real doctor so he does, maybe he can't smell all this drink”

“Here”

He hands me his fancy ticket machine and thrusts an inadequate imitation of a pen into my hand, demanding a signature. He gets one. For a second both of us stare at the scrawl I've made on his, frankly really shitty machine. I perceive nothing but pity in his eyes.

I close and lock the door.

“It's Dr. Davidson, dickwad” I declare to the hungry cat staring at me from the stairs.