Dupree wished he were dead. Not literally, figuratively, no, literally. He hated the fact the sun came up on another day. He hated the fact that downstairs, maybe, were three people he despised. There were probably only two. His worthless son, Eric, usually slept until noon. Or so Dupree was told.
Today was a bit different than other days. Dupree reached over and turned the alarm off at four-forty-five, pulled the covers up tight around his neck and said, “Screw it.” There are some reading this that will, using their best Dr. Phil armchair psychiatry, say Dupree was clinically depressed. Not so.
He was angry, resentful, frustrated, overworked, overpaid, under-sexed, under-appreciated, disgusted, and to sum it all up, he “had had enough.” Granted, two hads in the same sentence might not be correct, but that is exactly how Dupree saw his life.