Excerpt: The Final Straw

From the first section (Jack narrating):
I’ve already stepped on one roach already this morning.
The worst part is, I just scrape it off the bottom of my foot, and keep looking for my work shoes. I’ve gotten so used to living with this slob that I don’t care anymore. Some time in the past, I used to have a nice flat with nice roommates who were also working on their MFAs. We had this great coffee and cookie ritual every Thursday. Now I eat cold toaster pastries and drink instant coffee. Or I would, if I could find the electric kettle. Or any utensil or open container of food that’s not covered in mouse shit. I miss blackberry scones. And good coffee.
The Roommate is sprawled on our musty couch, watching some shitty talk show. His name is actually Donald John, but I prefer to think that he doesn’t have a name, and is just this lump on the couch whose name is on the lease.
“You want a beer?” he asks and waves a bottle at me.
I just ignore him. It’s half-past eight, and I still can’t find my good shoes. I’m going to be late for work. Again.
I thought by the time I was twenty-five, I’d be a best-selling author. I’d have book signing events and an adoring editor and great reviews. Instead I’m still in my starving artist phase, keeping myself afloat with this crappy office job so I can keep living in this crappy apartment.
Where the hell did the Roommate get the money to buy beer? It’s not time for his dole check yet. Not like I actually want to know. Probably some deal with one of his skeezy friends. It would just be nice if he bought some food sometime, seeing as I keep buying the instant noodles and he keeps eating them.
Shit. I’m going to be late.
Screw this, I’ll wear my slippers. I’ve got to go. At least that loser keeps paying the electric bill. Probably so he can keep watching the TV.
Out the door. The elevator is broken. A big “X” of caution tape over the door. Fantastic.

From a later section (Jack, again):

3:15PM
That’s my problem. I need to get my life together. Then I can finish my novel.
Except that I have nothing to say. It hits me like a wave. Chest height. There is absolutely nothing significant in my writing. There is nothing I need to express about myself, or about the world.
I don’t even like writing. I like the idea of writing. Of being a writer. But I hate actually writing.
I sit down on the sidewalk beside the building and just stare straight ahead. This is pretty much a train wreak. I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. I’m in too much of an overwhelming panic to even cry. This is awful. I somehow always assumed I’d have something deep to say. Something important. And it turns out my roommate was right all along.
“Sir?”
I look up.
It’s a police officer.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s a sign right above you.”
I twist my head around. There is in fact a sign above my head. It says NO LOITERING in large, white letters.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
I just nod. I don’t want to get up.
The officer flicks out a notepad. “Sir, I’m going to have to cite you for loitering.”
And I burst into tears.
The officer hands me a ticket.