Sunday afternoon

He could survive on Fresh Direct, RedTube, a box of Kleenex with aloe, and a bottle of 14-year-old Scapa. Maybe even just Maker's. It's Saturday night. The only light in the living room is the glow of his laptop, where he writes something a dozen people he's never met might think is clever, but also think, This dude needs attention, and maybe some therapy.

He wants to write: "Let's divide the world. The contest is over, the winners clear. Resources -- water, oil, pussy -- all conquered, captured. Our survival depends on each other now. " But he deletes that because he thinks it's cheesy even though it's true. He can't just be serious. Everything has to be a joke, especially when he's fucked up, which is all the time in one way or another.

Now it's Sunday afternoon. His potentially favorite time of the week. The sun shines into his dirty bedroom, but he's on his back, naked, and stares at the white ceiling – the only thing that's clean in the whole apartment. His girlfriend snuggles in the crook of his arm, her breast on his chest. She rubs his dick. The cat is meowing because it wants to get fed and only thinks about itself.

He arches his neck and looks out the window at his world upside down: the fire escape, a fluttering flag, a pigeon, the shadow of a barren tree's branches on a brick wall. He has a fantasy baseball draft to attend to, email, open enrollment for his shitty health insurance, and maybe some drugs want to be eaten because what better way to enjoy 50-degree weather in the middle of a bitter cold winter when his life is falling apart again. He will spend the rest of the day listening to Little Dragon and trying to write something that makes him feel better about life.


1 x like a billion = how much I love you:

The Conscientious Objector said...

Oh-ho, I know. You.


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