Gil (fenyx) wrote,
Gil
fenyx

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A little something I wrote earlier this week...

A green light, one less car, 5 more miles per hour and I'd be punching in at 6:45 as opposed to 6:46. A minute late, a dollar short, story of my life. I stumble down the hall. Good morning she says, with a smile as fake as the sugar she pours into her coffee. We exchange New Year's pleasantries as we mindlessly yap about the snow we're supposed to be getting in the next couple of days. 6-12 inches she says, I think to myself, I've got 6-12 inches for you. Mostly though, I imagine the snow burying her alive along with every one else in this shithole. Wouldn't it be nice? Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow, I fucking sing.

The fourth day in the year of my lord 2005 and already I'm hoping 2006 is better. A voyeur, I read all of your journals, then I read mine, some of us are just so pathetic, aren't we? Here we are prattling about the same shit over and over again. We type and turn these 0s and 1s into incessant bullshit about our love lives. We use technology originally intended to help save lives to talk about how we wish ours would end. We complain about our jobs, which we barely do, because we're on here ranting about them. But God forbid we actually do anything about it. It's too fuckin' comfortable, fuck change. Change is what you get back after cashing your measly paycheck and paying your bills. Change is what you do when you get home after work. Change is for suckers.

Don't listen to me though, I don't have a fuckin' clue. I'm as useless as the next person. Quit smoking, lose that weight, stop drinking, I'm sure you'll do just fine. Everyone sticks to their resolutions right? I don't see fat people drinking and smoking anywhere. Do you? Anyway, you know I'm not talking to you. You're the one person that's ok. You're happy, content. Life is good. Congratulations, now go away.

Don't you hate people like that? Pricks.

An empty space, a turn here, twenty-two minutes earlier and I wouldn't have found a ticket on my windshield. Fifty dollars big man, cough it up. For not affixing a tiny sticker on a license plate I've been carrying around in my bag for a month now. When I'm not being brought down by others, I cut my own fucking throat. You stupid asshole. Race home, have leftovers for lunch, spill some on your shirt, go back to your space, your cubicle, your cage.

And for what? So you can make a little money, which allows you to drown your sorrows in alcohol. So you can try to squeeze some semblance of a life into a two day weekend to help you forget the other five nightmarish days in the week? Alcohol you shouldn't be drinking, money you shouldn't be spending. If you're lucky you have a good time, meet some drunken slut, get laid, and show up to work Monday unscathed.

Back at work. I deal with idiot after idiot. I've seen cats smarter than these people. Cats. Surfing the net, I come across an article about self-esteem. Self-esteem, you think to yourself, that's about as existent in my life as the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. What will they think of next? You tell the next kid to finish school, get good grades and continue on to college. It's that easy, A, B, C. That guy that left earlier, remember, the one I wasn't talking to. I'm sure he finished school, top of his class, went on to a good college, jobs were knocking at his door when he finished. In four years of course. Now's he's got the white picket fence, the foreign car, and the 2.5 kids. I really hate that fucker.

Locker opens, hoodie goes on, and the ID card swipes me out a minute late. I head home in my 98 model year car, to my far from model wife. I consider telling her about the affair I've been having, but why ruin the one good thing in my life? I'll drag it on as long as I can, then when she wants out, I'll ask her for some money or I'm telling the hubby everything. The mole on her left breast, the scar on her inner thigh, the way she can put condoms on without using her hands. I'm really going to miss that one. I think to myself, I'll use the extra cash to buy the wife something nice.

Dinner is served, we eat, we fuck as I think of someone else the entire time. I fall somewhere in between sleep and consciousness only to have my dreams become nightmares, my nightmares reality. Five or six hours later I wake up, to do it all over again.

This is my life.
Tags: writing
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