“Doug, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Fuck off,” he replied. I say ‘replied’, but mean ‘slurred’.
“Doug, why are you drunk?” I asked, to be more clear. “It is eight in the morning. Also leave my snakes alone.”
He threw my snakes onto the couch. There is never a reason to throw snakes. They remember things like this and, even if they are non-venomous, they will remember to bite you.
“I AM A FANTASTIC PIANIST!,” Doug yelled to no one in particular. What he yelled did not sound like ‘pianist’, as when it stumbles off your lips, with vodka and spittle and and four un-toasted english muffins, dipped in grape jam, it just sounds like something very similar to ‘pianist’. “I am a brilliant pianist. I am. I can play in any scale. I can.”
“Yes,” I said. “You are an amazing piano player, Doug.”
“Okay, Doug. I agree,” I said. “You are a pianist.”