Another Day.

He wakes up. That cat is on his chest. It is comforting. It is like a metaphor. Then it starts gently scratching his face. This is also like a metaphor. He gets up. He makes breakfast. He drinks coffee. He checks the weather with a wet thumb. He watched too much Parks and Recreation. He knows this because he thinks that all the characters in the show are his real friends and colleagues. They are not his real friends and colleagues. They are constructs of human behaviour created by writers and actors. He is a construct of behaviours and thoughts of an author. He is no more real than they are. He is no more real than the thoughts he is fed word by word by word. He wonders whether he should buy a wig. He decides not to buy a wig. He wants more Patton Oswald in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. His Manadarin learning is not going well. His Spanish learning is not going well. He takes pictures of strangers with his phone. He notices hairs growing out of his nose. Out of the top of his nose. Lines of hairs. Why are they there? Why are there so many hairs on his nose? How did they get there? What are they doing there? He slumps. Then he plucks. Then he moves on, bravely, with his life. He watches a space rocket firing. It is glued to the ground. Are NASA testing a rocket or trying to speed up the rotation of the Earth. He does not read the report so he decides to assume the latter. He is tired. He is cranky. He is tired. He tries to remember the difference between its and it’s. He goes to bed.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

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

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