Douchebag is the last name of a lover.

I lay myself on the coffin-shape two seater sofa, cracked, counting an extra-ordinary sheep jumps over a pale white pole when I suddenly saw the previous me.

I miss those days. The day where I can't just simply put myself into that black sticky mud with no one to sing me a 'hey, don't do that' song. The day where stars and moon were just centimeters away from my head but with zero chances of plucking it. The day when earth will never start spinning unless I ask him to.

Secretly.

I lighted one of the cigar only to quench it back. Shame I didn't smoke. I just don't brave enough to start it.

I just don't have that guts. That's what my problem is.

How many times have I bumped into this uncivilized dude who throw out shit from his red shinny Ferrari. Worst when it hit my second-hand local-made car. But being a dude with no baseball bat nor a hockey stick in his car to come out with, I choose to continue driving.

And pull the wiper trigger to clean up all the mess that guy caused.

Back at that time when I saw a pregnant woman broadened her eyes looking for a seat in a packed train. I was thinking of giving her my seat but my coward side hold firm enough to deny me from standing up and offering her my seat.

And I let other douchebags takes all the credits. All the applause that previously and suppose-ly belong to me.

Fuck.