Sunday, June 5, 2011

Mustard Is A Type of Ketchup Pt. 2

     Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now. The phone is ringing. You might want to answer it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
"No mom, I just got up. What's up?"
"Oh, not too much. You know, just calling to say hi. I love you kiddo. I miss you. When can I see you?"
"I don't ca..."
"Oh guess what your father found yesterday at a garage sale?"
"I don't ca..."
"He found one of those retro microwaves. For a dollar!
"I don't ca..."
"He was telling me that..."
"Love you mom gotta go bye." The ensuing click is as enjoyable as a cold soda on a hot day. It tastes great, but stings a little bit.

     As particular days would have it, moments merge together up until you find yourself at work. Then your attention must be at it's peak, otherwise, you know you'd live with mommy dearest again. You love the woman, but live with her again? Back to the topic at hand.

     Work. Oh yeah that is where we were at. You're at work now, starring at a computer monitor. You always take your notes on a piece of paper though. Jack never takes notes. Hey, why the fuck does he borrow so many goddamn pens then? Go get them back. You have a moment of gumption, a glimmering bit of confidence and determination. You stand up, taught the bottom of your shirt with a humph, and

"Sit down." You sit down. It's Carol, your boss. She isn't pleased.

"So I asked for the digital read outs on the newest models yesterday. They still aren't on my desk. Why not?" You look up to answer, but say nothing.

"Well?" With that, you see how adorable the freckles around her nose are. Her face as if it where from one of those commercials with women that look like they went to college but worked through as a model or dancer. Her body, most likely magnificent, but those dress suites keep you from fantasizing to much. A couple cocktails in her would do her good. Cocktails? More like just your co

"Well? I don't like repeating myself." God, she is so pretty. If she smiled more, or as it where, ever, you'd probably risk your job, and knowing this bitch, your life, to just hit on her a little. Then again if she knew how to smile, you wouldn't find it necessary to mentally call her a bitch.

"I, uh, well, s s sorry. I had to figure out what was wrong with the my computer before I could finish."
"Well what was wrong with it?"
"It wasn't on." You crack a smile. She does not. You remedy the situation.
"Minor snags, ma'am. It will be on your desk before the hour is out."
"So it will be on my desk in three minutes?" You notice the time and grimace.
"I will have it on your desk in an hour."
She glares at you and walks off. You sigh, and get back to whatever the hell it is that you do.

     You complete the thing that she asked and then deliver. She gives an insincere but professional "thank you." You walk back to your spot of slavery, and forget what it was that you where doing. Just in general. It gets hazier, then the moments of the world merge together, and you're work day has ended. Your faceless co-workers and "friends" all head towards the elevator. You look towards your boss's office, almost longingly. Despite the fact that getting your dick wet seems very appealing, even more so is the fact that she is the same age as you, yet powerful, and intelligent, and in a spot of responsibility. You have a respect for this woman. A respect that goes along your train of thoughts even stronger than with how badly you want to see her tits. She is still in there. Everyone else is leaving or wrapping up. She is still in her office though. Doing whatever it is that she does beyond being mad at you and everyone else. You have an idea. You don't follow through.

     Several merging moments later, and many several drinks later, you're stumbling to the doors of the convenience store. They slide open. Ra...whoever looks over at you. You smile, yet she turns away without a response. You decide not to enter, turn around and leave as the doors shut behind you. Maybe she looked with curiosity, as to why you didn't come in.You don't bother to confirm or deny your suspicions. As per usual, your insignificant moments merge, and here you are, watching t.v. A mature late-night cartoon of some sort. It's brightly colored and silly. You care very little about other aspects. Two hours later, you find yourself trekking to your bedroom, destroying half the world on your way there. You set your phone aside from your pocket, then strip to your boxers, then pull shorts from a drawer and dawn them with minimal emotions.Red with black stripes. Your...favorite, you guess? Your phone.

     You set it aside for a reason. Oh yes, to call your mom. You start to dial, then stop. She's probably sleeping. Like shed care though. You want to call her. You want her to tell you that the universe is conspiring to give you what you want. You want to tell her how you miss cuddling in her lap while you eat cookies. You want her to tell you how much she cares, because then at least someone does. It makes you sick knowing you want this. It makes you feel guilty knowing you can't explain to her why it is nonconstructive and in fact would cause reverse growth as a person. So with the things that could be reflected on in the moments before sleep, instead you become sick, and ridden with guilt. Well done. Oh well. Tomorrow is another...

Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now.

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