Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Mustard Is A Type Of Ketchup Pt. 3

You are a little sore. When you woke up today, you decided that maybe you should do some push ups before work. It had been been awhile. You, your arms, and a rubbing motion have all become well acquainted.

     After the morning's tasks you arrive at work par usual, and sit in your own personal hell. The devil is approaching, and you ready your response in the form of a folder that you pulled from the second drawer of your desk.

"Do you..." And with a snap of the wrist, and the brisk cut off of a sentence, you're aiming the folder filled with misc. work babble right at Carols face.

"I finished it last night. I figured I'd wait until right now, so you could have done over all the digital read outs." You don't even bother looking at her, eyes fixated on the imaginary force illuminating from the screen of your computer monitor.

"Works for me." She says hesitantly as she snags the cove of treasure from your grasp. A moment goes by when you realize that she's still standing over you. You slowly pan your head over until you have eye contact. Her face, expressionless. Her body, still. You don't see what you saw the previous day. You see someone who has no reason to be harassing you anymore. After about ten seconds of peering into that gateway of nothingness, you turn back to your electronic overlord and begin doing what you do. A short time later, you feel her gaze still upon you.

"What?" You ask with a staunch coldness.

"Nothing." As she walks away in what seems to be a frustrated fervor. You peer out the side of your festering domain to watch her walking away. What the fuck just happened?

You look back at the monitor. You look closer. Closer. Closer damn it. A blurry transition, and suddenly you're pulling your face away from the bar counter. You look around. The usual suspects. You look ahead, your good buddy whiskey is mingling with coke, ready for your consumption. You're met with a not so gentle slap on the back, releasing the drink you had started to take.

"Why so down, mother fucker?" It's Jack Rodgers, with a big, stupid grin on his big, stupid face.

"Ieeem juss kenda tired I g...guess." Ieeem juss kenda what? Oh yeah, you're drunk already.

:"Well wake the fuck up. Drink drink drink." God how you hated that guy. But yes. Drink drink drink. Refill, drink drink drink. Refill. Drink drink drink Refill, drink drink dancing? What's going on?

You find yourself dancing like a fool, some seventies rock blasting from the jukebox. After a long while, you notice that you are all with your lonesome, making quite the spectacle of yourself. After a couple of chuckles can be made out from the faceless mass, you decide to speak up.

"Wh...what the fuuuuuck are you fuuuucking losers looking at? This is a party. Isn't this a party?" Your voice getting alarmingly high for that last sentence. The chuckling stops. Just a sea of people staring at you in a painfully blank manner.You stare back, an emotional grimace with a dash of dread, accompanied by a trickle of sweat crawling down your forehead. Is this happening. Is it really happening? Why do you even bother coming out? You're better then these people anyways. You close your eyes for an entire minute, and reopen them just to be in the same spot. No instant transition for you. By then most have averted their attention elsewhere. After rocking back and forth for another minute, you make your way to the door. It flies open, and you feel the night air with a sarcastic glee. Hello sidewalk, meet vomit. He'll be joining you this evening.

"Hey buddy, watch it!" Shouts an angry patron, out for a smoke. Hello patron's face. Meet fist. He'll be joining you this evening. Hello sidewalk. Meet unconscious patron. He'll also be joining you this evening. You look at your throbbing hand. Wow, you still got it. You decide to go running. Really really fast. 

Besides the two dozen tumbles and six signs you run into, you make it home, practically unscathed. You look up the height of your apartment complex. You stand there for probably an hour, confused. Frustrated. Why? Then again, why what? You wish the god you barely believe in would end your Kafkaesque  existence by making you die of alcohol poisoning. Or maybe a disgruntled hobo could have tracked you down and shanked you from behind. You where always a nice guy. Such a nice guy. Why did you have to get stabbed out of everyone else? Weren't you just hoping that you died anyways? Well you got what you wanted. Wait, no you didn't. No one stabbed you. You go distance required until your home is reached. Practically knocking the door down, you slam it shut and find your way to the kitchen.

The kitchen. Wait, what? Why are you...wait. What were you doing?

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