Jessica by Joe Moler

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That's sometimes harder to take than this insufferable sickness which stifles me, slowly and persistently. Send me a young woman to die in her arms and let me go to fucking hell. I don't want to suffer, I want to die, I'm sick of this incessant lying around and farting into the mattress – enough! And you, damn old lady, Jessica, may God break your legs or may you get run over by that double-decker bus which drives down Lexington Avenue. Damn old lady, you've not been around for three weeks and I'm all smelled up, I'm chocking in this small, dirty apartment like a fly in shit. Come you damn old fleece bag... I shouted and then poured all the remaining Cognac into what was left of the coffee and gulped it down.
The telephone rang. The guy who calls himself a social worker was calling.
"How's it going, Joe?"
"I'm dying, I'm chocking, my ass is infected with filth, my ears are all encrusted and I haven't taken a crap for 6 days. That damn Jessica hasn't come around for an entire decade," I hollered through the mouth piece at the social worker who had done nothing wrong...
"Jessica has died, Joe, she died couple of days ago. We'll send by one nun or a young medical student from Sweden."
"Listen, social, I'll pray for you to my dying day if you send me that Swedish student."
"OK, sport," he answered in a good mood.
Thank you, God, for listening to me, I thought to myself, happy at the though of having a student from Sweden who's likely to be good looking, coming around to wipe my ass and wash my bathroom for several months. All pleased, I lit a cigarette.
And then, as if out of spite, I remembered the poor Jessica, lying dead in a cold casket, six feet underground. There's always something that has to spoil my mood...