Bastard.

Dumb son of a bitch.

He doesn’t realize.

How can he not?

Angel, ex-murderous vamp and current all around nice guy is dumb as a post. He’s sitting there now, at his desk, leafing through some papers of a case we have recently taken on. Totally oblivious. He’s a damn private investigator and he doesn’t even see what is in front of him. What’s in front of him is Cordelia.

She’s here too, standing at the file cabinet, pretending to file when she’s really glancing at him.

Life sucks. And I don’t mean that rhetorically, I mean life really, truly sucks, for me anyway.

Now I never used to think that, way back when my life was fine. I drank, partied, did whatever I wanted. I was Doyle, party animal, or some other cliché saying that expresses what I mean, dammit all was great. Then I got stuck. Apparently I was *the* person to watch over Angel, be a role model. I know what you’re doing, you’re laughing at the idea, well, I did too.

Hanging with Angel wasn’t so bad, sure, it’s a bitch to get him to do a little partying but you get used to it. Hell, after a while, I grew to like the guy, no problems, then, it happened. One day Cordelia Chase came into the agency. Right then life pretty much began to turn.

I flirted, of course, threw out comments I was almost sure she would smack me for but she never did. She didn’t need to, her insults were enough, they always effectively made me feel like my manhood got cut off with a rusty pocketknife, well, most of the time anyway. Either way I would usually give her a like-I-give-a-shit look and throw another one at her. She didn’t care.

It became clear to me that as the weeks wore on I was spending a lot less time doing shots of vodka and more time hanging around the agency. Around Cordelia. Stupid, I know. I actually found myself waiting to see her, trying to come up with the perfect thing to say that would get the most attention, sometimes it worked, those times being when Angel wasn’t around.

Life sucks.

Leave it to me, Doyle, king of Jello shots and one night stands to start to fall for someone who, when Angel came into view, wouldn’t bother to kick me with one of those demented high heels she manages to walk in. Well, maybe she would, if I was laying on the floor she might step on my head to go tell Angel someone called to inquire about his long distance carrier.

Oh yeah, life sucks.

She’s going over to him now, sliding on to his desk, notepad in hand, staring at him like he’s the master of all great and wonderful. I feel sick. She’s writing something about a book he needs and I already know one of my trips today will be to that damn occult shop that smells like feet and burning hair.

Why did he even hire her? Okay, aside from the obvious. She doesn’t really do anything except file, and by that you probably know I meant her nails. Cordelia Chase ventures out for nothing used for work, not a book, not a potion, nothing. When she does go out its because Angel either forced her or acted as sweet as pixie stix and wrapped her around his little finger. The man is a pimp.

But that rarely happens, the going out part I mean, the pixie stix part is more frequent. Anyway there is usually one name called. Doyle. That’s it. Always ‘Doyle, get this’ or ‘Doyle, go pick up that’ and not even a thank you. Limey bastard. At least most of the time when Cordy asks me to do something she’s sitting down and I can get a nice look down her blouse. I know, I’m desperate. Shut up.

She’s laughing now, Angels smiling and she’s laughing. Yuck. How can he not notice? It’s plain as day, well, the last time I saw day, vamp hours suck. But like I was saying, it’s plain as day, she’s still sitting on the desk but she’s leaning forward a bit, into him, her hand on his arm, she’s smiling, he’s smiling . . . Have you ever felt the need to bang your head repeatedly off of a brick wall? I have, as in, I do, right now.

Not to be repetitive but life sucks. A lot.

Now their talking, joking, as he finishes whatever inane story he’s been telling his hand goes to rest on her knee and her face practically beams. I, on the other hand, feel the unpleasant urge to throw up. Just that one little gesture and he might as well have thrown her on the desk and started going at it right there because it couldn’t feel worse. Well, okay, maybe I am over reacting a little. Still hurts though.

Absolutely, life is one big sucky thing. Damn.

I sigh because, well, life sucks. Now to make matters worse I think maybe Angel is starting to catch on to Cordy’s I-want-to-be-your-love-slave stares because not even he notices I’m sitting here on the verge of suicide. Actually, it looks like Angel has a better chance of noticing that Cordy is wearing red underwear under that heart-stopping skirt. How do I know? Cause she wears a lot of red under her clothes. How do I know that? Okay, so one day I saw her laundry basket around after she finished with the dryer. Yep, I think we already established I’m desperate and now I can be labeled ‘sad little weirdo’ as well.

Did I already tell you life sucks? Well, it does.

Angels talking to me, apparently, he’s called me fifty times already, well that’s what he said, though in the time used I think is only possible to say my name three times, whatever.

What the hell did he say? Oh, Cordy’s hungry, they’re going to get something to eat, and do I want to go too? Not freaking chance in hell. I’m having trouble holding down food now and I think if they start feeding each other fries or something I’ll ruin their meal when I end up puking on them. They’re leaving now, walking out the door and I doubt they even realized I said no.

So what is the lesson learned today? That’s right. Life sucks.

Now I’m left here and I sigh pathetically again. I wonder if that bar down the street is still open . . .