Saturday, June 4, 2011

Mustard Is A Type Of Ketchup pt.1

      Waking up in a world you never cared for isn't an easy task. Once you find yourself departing from your dreams, you come into consciousness with a lingering grog, be it you snapped awake or gradually crawled into a new day's life. This being achieved, you realize you're alive and instantly dread. You'd kill yourself, you think, but suicide isn't natural. You're a bit neurotic. Especially about what's natural. Otherwise, yeah, you'd jump off a building, or run into traffic. Maybe eat a fuck load of beans and drown yourself in a steaming hot bath. Yes, this would be delightful.

     Morning's preparation is an event to hardly behold. The whole thing with the brushing of the teeth. The shaving. The shower. The drying of the shower's wetness. The beheading of nudity by tossing on the attire of the day. The drudging down to eat breakfast, alone, because you find yourself too miserable for company in the earliest of your morning. The morning's fog and light dew. The walk to work, since you live in an apartment in the city and have no family near by. Then finally, work. 

     You open the door, find your way to your spot, then you work. You work for two hours, take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, take a half hour lunch. You work for two hours, you take a ten minute break. You work for two hours, you leave and go to the bar with the losers that sort of pass for your friends. Yes, this counts as work, because if you didn't drink until drunk and be at least partially social, the thoughts of how you'd kill or burn (and essentially still kill) everything around you become more vivid then usual. Take Jack Rodgers.

     God, how you hate Jack Rodgers. Always bugging you for a pen, after he lost the last one you let him borrow. Always thinking he's so goddamn cool, with his fancy shoes and his fancy hair. Also, remember Dorris, that gorgeous redhead that transferred there for a couple months? You had a big crush on her, and it seemed to be mutual. She was the sunshine that brightened your ever so dark existence. You where always so kind to her. Guess who fucked her? Jack Rodgers, that's who. You occasionally saw her in that pit of cobras with ol' Jacky boy. 

"Another round for my main man, here!" Jack would yell at the bar tender, winking at you. Yes, this seemed nice, but you where going to end up paying for it anyways. Maybe Jack should pay for it. With his face. Into the bar counter. Oh well.

     The walk home is bearable. You know, being drunk and all. Occasionally, you stop at the convenience store a block up from your place, to buy some candy or a hot dog. That, and that cute east Indian girl who's name you can't pronounce works there. 

"Good evening, Raj...Rajii, Rami...Ra.."
"Have a good night." She'd reply while pushing your merchandise towards you. Another oh well for you.

     Then home. You check the mail. Wait. What's this? A package? My god. What could it be? What adventures might it be leading to? It...wait, no. It was put in the wrong box. It's for the neighbors. Splendid. You return it to them with a drunken smile that is hardly sincere as you make your way back to your apartment.

     At least your home coming poo will cheer you up. It does, par usual. Maybe the three hours of droning on the split time of t.v. and computer will wash away the day. It starts to. Maybe you will forget you exist in the ensuing sleep. You do.

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