Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. The elevator sounds like a penny whistle. It penny whistles down. He reads more Octavia Butler. He thinks about teeth. He thinks about whales. He thinks about royal families. He thinks about accidentally downloading a film from a dubious source and then getting a worried email from his landlord about a letter that he received from Verizon concerning illegal downloading. He is going to be sent to federal prison for watching Divergent illegally. He is scared. The air conditioning does not work. He is sweating motionless on the bed beads of sweat writing on his body weighing his body down. He has a coffee. He has an an erection. He has a thought. He takes food for lunch. He looks forward to pulled pork empanadas. He doesn’t have to wait long for the bus. He arrived at work. His mug has gone his Orioles mug has gone some muggerfucker has stolen it he is irritated and he searches prowls the desks for his treasured Orioles mug but he cannot find it he cannot find his mug anywhere no matter how hard he searches he returns to his grotto defeated. He is remembering things in the wrong order. He imagined Proust never had this problem. He eats lunch. He works. He works quite hard. It is not hard work. He smiles at the Scotland uniform for the commonwealth games. It looks like a drunk rainbow has vomited on the team. It is amazing. He can’t look away. He is mesmerized. He goes to the gym. His muscles ache in a pleasant way. Afterwards he positions himself under a light in the changing room and tenses his muscles. The angle of the light casts sharp relief on his body and he looks very toned. He is not very toned and he knows this but he enjoys the fantasy as he stands under the light tensing into the mirror then he hears the door to the changing room open so he quickly grabs a towel and rushes into the shower he does not want to be found nude by a colleague creating poses in a changing room mirror even under complimentary lighting. It is hot and humid outside. He is not late for the train. He times the train perfectly. He is on the train. He is aiming directly for his bed. He will eat his carrot spinach kale soup which is far tastier than it has any right to be. It has every right to be tasty. He stops arguing with his taste buds and just lets the pleasure wash over him. He reads. He writes. He cogitates. He drinks coffee. He watches msnbc. He watches fox news. He watches cnn. He ignores the throbbing at the back of the head that watching these three things does. Then he cannot ignore it so he turns the television off. He reads about the death of the novel the death of the literary novel and the phoenix rising of the self-published fan fiction extravaganza. He thinks about getting a haircut. He needs to get a haircut. His hair is too long. He ponders over a conversation he overheard at work. He self-flagellates about an error at work that could have been solved, by him, days ago, but he let it go and then it got out of control. Then he gets over it because no one died. Then he watches a trailer for Dawn of the Apes. Hollywood does love Apocalypse. Hollywood does have contempt for the masses for the people venerating the strong leader the benevolent fascist the Strong Man the cowardly huddle mass begging for leadership and direction. Not a democratic view of the world. He does not know what that means or what to make of it. He goes to sleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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