Today was shaping up well. He'd gotten out of bed late enough to flush the last of the alcohol from his system. But he was still thirsty. He hadn't eaten breakfast, because why would he? He'd take it from some teenager or down some chips. He trudged glumly to the kitchen and opened a beer hidden under the sink. "Nothing like a cold beer in the morning!" he thought. But he had to go to work—any more and the boss would get to his... skin. He'd let too much go. "Time to wake up," he dragged his feet to the bathroom. He checked his hair. A shy light blond peeked out from under a thick layer of bright green dye. "Dyeing it again! But not now. I'm already late," he sighed. The left side of his hair had dulled a bit—the spikes were tilted toward the top of his head. He quickly fixed it with a bit of hairspray and some practiced hand movements. It was much better this way. He masked the stench wafting behind him with a layer of spray. He remembered that he had band practice today. He was the guitarist in the heavy – grunge – black – punk – meat – metal band "Śmierdąące kichy." "What should I wear?" he groaned unconsciously, opening his wardrobe. After a brief moment of deliberation, he put on black leather studded trousers, a black leather studded jacket, and combat boots. He also grabbed his favorite black leather-covered, studded baseball bat. "Hmm, I wonder what a baseball bat is?" he thought idly. He took a second, of course... His first breakfast – two beers and a half liter – he packed into his backpack. The bottles barely fit because of all the books. He'd have to get rid of them. He left the apartment. He stuck his hand in and grabbed some cigarettes from the dresser. He didn't lock the apartment – why? His mother was already waking up anyway. Grumbling glumly, he stooped toward inevitable, fruitless (?) boredom. After those few hours of accelerated learning, he probably wouldn't pass the second grade in that damn shack.
The janitor (that old whore) yelled at him again for not changing his shoes. However, she kept a safe distance from the stick that 14-year-old Zdzisiek was using to disguise himself, limping slightly. He went to the classroom. The teacher, worse than the cloakroom attendant, talked the rest of the lesson through about why he was late, where he was, how he was going to pass next year, and what was happening to these young people today. This two-hundred-pound elephant should have retired long ago—and gone on a diet. The bell interrupted his nap. He stood up and suddenly it dawned on him—"Lunch break! Time to relax!" (RELAXATION – in this case, having fun, being a hooligan, smoking, drinking and kicking some ass in one word.)
"I needed this," Zdzisiek breathed a sigh of relief, leaving behind a small cataclysm, a cloud of smoke and a drizzle of beer. As an afterthought, he added, "A few less sweatpants." There were only two more classes left – PE and religion. He was excused from both – the former due to weak lungs, the latter due to an allergy to exorcisms. He could have gone home, but he preferred to go shopping, which consisted of a large amount of provisions for breakfast, as well as new strings – the ones had burned out after the last concert. That was when he changed his hairstyle – his previous hair had been badly singed. Time for rehearsal.
Someone offered him cigarettes, someone beer, a joint. They liked him here. Time to let off steam on his instrument.
Staggering back from rehearsal, Zdzisiek unerringly found his way home (as usual, this is no problem for birdbrains). Along the way, he encountered a red giraffe, a blue hippopotamus, and a half-colored zoo animal. "It must be those joints," Zdzisiek thought. At home, a purple toad—his mother—opened the door. Squawking and gurgling, she led him to his room, which was thickly plastered with posters of files. Zdzisiek undressed and collapsed unconscious on the bed
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