Another Day.

He wakes up. The pilot is depressed. The pilot was depressed. Now there is a reason and everyone is happy that there is a reason and he hid his sick note and depression is a crime and he murdered all those people and shaming begins in earnest and then angry responses are loaded and tweets are fired and the battle is commenced as nuance cowers under a bush or in a cave or up a mountain anywhere it will not be hit by the angry shrapnel of social media that zings through the air because clear cut answers are required and answers are required even when there are no answers. He eats some oatmeal. He writes. He has a coffee. He sighs as he weighs himself and the chirpy voice of the wii fit says that he is overweight in it’s gratingly optimistic sing song voice just like the little “oof!” noise it makes whenever anyone stands on it’s wii fit board they engineers must have loved that idea when they installed it the relentlessly upbeat microagressive wii fit AI. fuck you wii fit AI he thinks fuck you and your pre-programmed morning chipperness. He wants to smash it and throw it out of the window. He does not do this because of his immense self-control of which he is, in this moment, rightly proud. He puts on a black sweater. He looks good in it although it will turn out to be a mistake later because by lunchtime it will be covered in dried skin scratched out of his beard and his hair. He does not know this at the time as he admires himself in the mirror the tall mirror angled against the wall. Then he puts underwear on. Then he puts trousers on. This is the order that these things should happen. Then the toilets are fixed and they do not constantly stream cry waterfall and the silence in the apartment is now only broken by the sound of the catch destroying soft furnishings with his claws. He walks to work. There are less people on the street today. He does not know why. He eats food. This helps pass the time. He talks. This helps pass the time. He goes to the bathroom. This passes the time. Later on he will heat a quesadilla at a restaurant and it will taste really good. For now he sits alone in his room unaware that this excitement is to come. He looks at pictures of war and suffering and death and he chooses the ones which are most suitable for public consumption. He reads more about police corruption. He draws. He adapts self-help phrases. He eats some more food. He watches some comedy. It is funny comedy. He does more smiling than laughing so the performers will have no idea how much he is really enjoying it. His energy bobs like a boat on a roiling ocean. He watches Grimm. It is grim. He goes to sleep.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

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

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