The alarm goes off at seven thirty aye em but I was already awake. Hit the snooze button. Glasses on. Contemplate breakfast. Alarm again. Hate the sound of it. Turned off. Get up. Heater on. Sniff the yoghurt. Pop twist open the eyeball jar of crimson sour cherries. Fill a bowl with specially designed to give you less cholesterol wheat flakes. Spoon in the cherries, some juice and then the yoghurt. Put them away. Mix it. Resembles pus I saw in a zombie movie. Slunch all it down sitting on the bed in front of the heater. Rinse the plate, the spoon. Shower. Some kind of mould growing in here. Dry. Clean teeth. Check pimples. Need a shave. No time. Undies. Socks? None clean. Have to recycle. One blue and one white. Recycle the shirt. No time for ironing. Pants picked up from crumple. All assembled and belt tied. Slip on leather black shoes. One has a cut the size of a finger in the side. Check keys. Wallet. Smokes. Phone. Lighter. Music player. Off we go.
I think I forgot to lock the door. Go back. Check it. It’s locked. Off we go.
A walk to work in summer is a beautiful thing. In the middle of winter, it just makes you start to think. Why am I here, doing this, to myself? I could be in bed. Broke, but in bed. Sleeping till ten. Dreaming of things or nothing at all. Either of them would be preferable to making my cheeks break veins and go purple, freezing rain dripping off my nose, walking through thick cutting tornados blowing against me. Why do I do it? Because it’s worth it. I’m making ten dollars an hour here. A good wage if I was younger, still living at home and it was still the nine teen eighties. Ah well. As long as I spend half my wage on rent and a third on taxes and another ten per cent on goods and slaves tax Gee Ess Tee on everything I buy, I can feel proud. And eat. After that I clear about five bucks a week. I could rent a DVD? The latest gore slime filled revenge thriller featuring the undead versus erotic vampire cops. But, ah fuck they’re six bucks a night. Think I should just save up to a get another bottle of that vodka that smells like fuel and makes you eyes stop working. That was good stuff. Work. Five minutes late.
You may ask – why don’t I just kill myself if I hate my life so much. And that’s the thing. Hate is a strong word, besides I figure being dead would be even more boring. And what if there’s a Hell? Not saying I’d go to it, it’s likely, but what if that’s just the same as here? Only you don’t get paid. It’d be filled with no empty space carparks, and never ending shopping centres but you’ve always left your wallet at home, even though the stuff in there would be absolute shit anyway, and they’d be rotting bimbos yelling on phones, and walking into poles and snotted up screaming children, and elderly sick people hocking purple phlegm onto everybody’s shoes. There’s no seats. The toilets are wallpapered with fluids. The food halls are just rows and rows of no mannered chewing mouths slopped open. And then finally you’re be able to leave, if you can remember where you parked your car, after sixty or seventy million years of being trapped in this heating box of a nightmare, only to have to go back to work again. See what I mean…
Work. You know what I figure with work, unless you’re doing what you love. What speaks to your soul. And makes you enjoy just getting there. It’s all the same. Like eating a can of tuna, that reminds me I gotta get some more, if you’ve eaten it once it all tastes pretty similar. I work offices, I don’t work outside. Tried that once, and it and me don’t mix. And if I’m going to be hungover, I atleast want a seat. So there’s things to type, there’s humorous emails to receive, I might need to scan something, somebody needs to be called, something needs stapling. Fill in time and hope the clock passes fast. The golden gates of lunch gets me through the first half, home time the second. There’s always a middle manager floating over your shoulder. The voice of the little sheet wearing angel and the little pitchfork clutched demon mixed into one. They’ll scorn and scowl and um and repeat themselves and make sure you’ve done pointless things until snapping point, then come the quick praises, the humility, the we’re all in the same boat and like, hate the same things, people comments and quips that make you relate. But really you can’t. They have seven letters in their title that I don’t have, and that makes me inferior. It’s worse pay and all that at the bottom, but there’s a comfort there. Nobody really notices you. You never get any say in big decisions, and if you make a mistake, then there’s no where for you to be demoted to. Still I wouldn’t mind moving up the ranks one day. Hasn’t happened yet though, anywhere. Look at that. It’s time to go home.
Same walk home. Except the sun has twisted shut the blinds. Get to the flat and just lie there. Don’t want to leave again. Gotta cook. Kettle on. The saucepan scrubbed with steel wool, soap and warm water. All I can cook with is boiling water and microwave buttons. Noodles, pasta, rice. Vegetables in plastic packets. Grab a possibly cockroach run over bowl. And an oily fork. Wipe up. Things dumped in the sink. Man I have to take that garbage out soon. Sit in a chair silent for awhile. Should shave and iron. Later. Before I forget better set the alarm for tomorrow.