I have been feeling like writing for quite a while now. I have decided I'd begin writing a series, and felt that the most appropriate place for me to publish it would be here on the blockchain, for one of my favorite communities on the internet to read before anyone else.
**Warning, this story can have some mature themes, including foul language, drug abuse, immoral behavior and sexual content**
I wake up to the sound of an ungodly robotic alarm.
A blaring klaxon, announcing the impending doom brought by the light of day to a pair of fossilized eyeballs, which reluctantly awake from their slumber to peer angrily at their offensive auditory enemy.
08:30 AM
I peel my slippers onto my feet, and cook three eggs in an unwashed pan covered in the fat from whatever I cooked yesterday. I set the kettle to boil water for coffee and reach for a bag of stale whole-beans in the cupboard.
Operating as always, exhibiting a subconscious lack of free will, my hand ignores the beans and reaches for powdered instant coffee instead. I drown the bitter, burnt, tar-laden sensation in evaporated milk and sugar until the drink is lavish and comforting. The scent and taste of hot dairy and sugar hits my tongue, and after dropping two aspirins in and taking a few slow sips, the pressure from my migraine begins to leak out of my skull.
"Can't be fucked," I mutter, tossing the bag of cardboard-dry coffee beans back into its place at the rear of the cupboard, next to the spicy shrimp flavored instant noodles. "Can't be fucked..."
I really like coffee, and used to take the time to make sure everything was just right. The time it spent brewing, the temperature, the bean type and roast, the ratio of water to coffee. I didn't use paper filters to make sure I ended up with that sweet aromatic layer of oily fatty acids sitting at the top of the cup. I always drank it potent, and darker than a downward-spiraling nightmare.
There once was a time that I would go through great lengths to exert effort upon every minute aspect of my life. Every moment was a conscious decision, a perceived solution deduced and selected from the ranks of many carefully considered candidates, a legitimate attempt to impose my will upon the wild and chaotic world that envelopes my existence. Every move I made could be described as a thrash of the tail against the flowing current, a screech of the lungs against roaring storm and thunder. It was my way of convincing myself that I had some sort of influence over my chaotic existence. And I swore to myself that I would never become complacent. I would never lie down and be battered by my own inaction. I took an oath in adolescence to do whatever I could to strive to live every moment to the absolute maximum of my ability, and take control of my destiny in any way possible.
But here I am, a mere few years later in my fuzzy unwashed towel robe and soiled boxers. I'm standing so extremely contrary to the strongest of opinions from my vibrant and strong-minded past self that I can not even begin an attempt to comprehend the raw hypocrisy that I now exhibit on a daily basis.
The ring of my cellular phone breaks the monotonous drone of the old refrigerator, and lights up with the name "Melanie" displayed on a back-lit, heavily pixelated screen on the front. I pull out the telescopic antenna and flip it open, and after a moment of hesitation depress the thick, green button to answer the call.
"Hello? Melanie? Heheeey baby, how've you been, how're you doin? Look I've been meaning to call bu-wait. Wa-what? What's the big deal?"
A few moments passed. The rise and fall of the intonations of her speech hinted towards angry. Her rapid words sounding off like gunfire, indicating her discontent. I hadn't called Melanie in over two weeks.
"What the hell are you talking about? You know I've had my hands full with my cousin Matt in the hospital. Things are really serious, I wanna be there for him!"
Matt had been out of the hospital and fully recovered from his leukemia months ago. I smoked a blunt with him the week before. I don't usually lie this way but I wanted an easy way out.
A small tin can voice snaps back at me through the phone, with the metallic tone of a pissed off princess. But to me it is so distant it might as well be coming from the other end of a train tunnel.
In response to the verbal barrage, I softly repeat my mantra from the morning coffee-bean ritual. "Can't be fucked, can't be fucked..."
After too little time passes, I bubble over.
"You know what Mel? How about you come take your shoes out of my closet and you fuck off. I don't need this kind of drama in my life. If you can't stand with me through the crap that I'm dealing with then just go ahead and fuck right off."
I snap the cellular phone shut with a satisfying clack and place it on the coffee table. I knew Melanie would be calling back later that evening to apologize for her "misbehavior." She would almost certainly stop by that night or the next day to cook food, clean up, smoke and have sex. After being swooned for a while she would leave for a work shift and not be contacted again for several days. This reoccurring cycle is what sustains me. I can't cook worth a damn, and I hate cleaning.
I used to be able to fall in love. But now I feel different. My nephew asked me about falling in love and getting married two days ago while I was pushing him lazily on the swing. I provided him with a personal statement on the topic.
When love comes a'callin. Don't be afraid. Be tempted. Let yourself enjoy the feeling. For it is a feeling you will only enjoy a few fleeting moments of.
You will be crushed. You will be absolutely destroyed... Perhaps you will perish from your agony. But if you don't, if you keep your pieces of quilt all stitched up and sewn neatly together, and you can bear to sleep at night, then you will heal. In a way, you will become dead inside. The personification of scar tissue -this will be your identity.
You will be better equipped to take on what life sets before you. You will feel no pain. You will have no fear. You will feel nothing but the ravenous desire to get what you are really hungry for.
Needless to say my nephew went home from the park that day a very confused but sincerely enlightened young man.
Satisfied with the damage I had done so far that morning, I pull on my worn oil-soaked jeans and slip my skinny arms through the sleeves of a blue and gold university sweater from a school I never went to. Rolling was difficult with cold hands, but I achieved success spawning a small joint, managing to light it on the red-hot iron of the electric stove-top. Rubbing my palms together against the chill of the unheated apartment while puffing greedily on the sativa dominant breed of white widow, I sip my coffee and ponder the possibilities of extraterrestrial life as I'm interrupted by an annoying ping from my cellphone.
The back-lit screen displays a classic piece of pixel art portraying an envelope. A text? From who?
I open the phone only to realize that my friend Jay was recovering from a hangover and looking for some debauchery over by the trolley tracks behind the laser tag spot near the mall. Idiot doesn't understand me when I tell him texts cost me 12 damned cents each. I promise myself to rip a chunk out of his beard today when I see him.
I stamp my joint out in a cheap plastic ashtray and smooth my ragged greasy hair into place in the bathroom mirror. The stubble on my face needs shaving but that can wait till I buy some razors. After popping a hot zit and brushing my teeth, I'm ready for action. The front door shuts behind me and I begin my march towards H street, where the trolley tracks meet the road near the best taco stand in town. As I pick up the pace, I realize how far away the meetup spot really is compared to how far I pictured it to be in my mind.
"Jay better have something good for me" I say to myself as I walk by a few Mexican workers trimming plants outside the apartment complex.
