It was late autumn last year, and my dream of becoming a professional boxer had just been shattered, and when I returned home scarred, I always felt like I couldn't find what I was looking for, and I became unprofessional, spending my days drinking and fighting. www.biquge.info In order to earn money for drinking, I found a late-night part-time job in a cold store, taking care of the frozen beef hanging from the bars.

It's a little strange that my boss would be willing to hire someone like me.

In fact, no one would come to the cold storage to make trouble, and what I did was drink in a cramped concierge until dawn. The night was at its coldest, when I was almost drunk.

Late every night, inexplicable irritability and heat drove me to walk up to the hanging frozen beef, gritting my teeth and hitting the cold and hard beef with my fists until my hands were bloody, and the cold droplets in my eye sockets were also flowing with blood.

Cold storage, it's really cold. I thought as I looked at the phosphoric lights of the cemetery, drinking the inferior wine that made me feel a little warm.

Drinking a lot of alcohol every day, my brain gradually became like a fist under a bandage, some strange hallucinations, and inexplicable fragments filled my dreams. I used the change I had from to buy alcohol to buy pens and paper to write down the ridiculous stories. Because I was afraid of being seen and laughed at, I always carried a notebook with stories with me.

I had a big fight with a few thugs that day, and the bruises on my eyes were as black as cinders, so I wanted to go to the cold storage to get some ice, but I was hit by a sudden bulldozer on the sidewalk, and the notebook in my pocket also fell out.

Fortunately, I didn't get too badly injured, and I got up from the ground and viciously demanded all the money from the uncle who drove the bulldozer. When I was about to leave and use the money to buy some more wine, someone stopped me from behind.

He said as he flipped through my notebook of dreams.

"Your story is very good, do you want to go with me to the starting point to write a novel?"

I don't remember what he said to me that day, but just three days later, I bought a second-hand computer with the money I had asked for from Uncle Bulldozer, let go of my fist injured by the collision with the cold reality, and moved my clumsy fingers in the cold storage concierge in the middle of the night to start writing the story "My Roommate Is Really Wrong".

When I think back to this past, I feel ......

Sure enough, it's a shame to be so!

But I do have a friend, the friend who asked me to write a novel with me that day, and he recently threw his fist.

[bookid=3122206,bookname="The Mystery of the Gods"], under the clouds of history, the story of the boy and the gods.

This is my friend's fist, and even you who have seen the end of this white nonsense, why don't you go and see something more interesting.

Du stop the cup