Freedom, Depression, Religion & Lady Nicotine

The man shook his head in disgust.  I could see he wanted to tell me to get a job. I'd heard it before. Perhaps even tell me to go fuck myself—I'd heard that just as often.
He shoved the stick into first and just before releasing the clutch, he smirked, "These fuckin' things are bad for you," laughed and pulled away.  A breeze of freshly cooked pumpernickel and whole wheat bread blew past. 
Fucking asshole, I . . .    continue to this chapter . . .