I was hunting for a certain style and a unique perspective for a specific character in my new novel, Beautiful Boy. He's an old guy, and as much as I didn't want to, I forced myself to think about getting older. This is the way it reads:
He woke up.
Well, something had awakened him. At 87, he didn’t generally just wake up. It was usually something that would wake him. Things like acid reflux. Or a bladder spasm. Or his bum knee throbbing like a drum. It wasn't like any of those things, though.
He opened his eyes. Sun was shining. That was strange. Generally he was standing over the toilet before first light. What the hell?
And, as he stuck his legs out over the side of the mattress, he realized.
He had a boner.
Well, good goddamn.
How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Shit. He had to admit that he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d had a stiffie.
Quickly, he turned to look at the other side of the bed, and sadly remembered that Carla was away for the week visiting her goddamned cousins in Tifton. As if he needed a further reason to hate those back-biting bitches and their soft-bellied husbands and sons o’ bitchin’ kids.
Shit.
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