Monday, May 11


There is a very very very very very light rain, and someone will die today. The weather reminds a man of his old car that was taken through a statewide cruise with a woman who he is not sure if he could call a girlfriend at the time. She was thin and funny and not much else. She had a nice face when she laughed too loud and rarely expressed annoyance when he repeated himself. This is the reason he slept with her for exactly three months, and because it’s winter or because he is older or because he tucks his shirt into his pants some days, his memories are becoming increasingly repressed, and since the summer of the statewide cruise he has cut many things out of his diet, including alcohol, bread and some cheeses. He drinks four cups of coffee.

He will not go to work today, and says this out loud to an empty house. If he could wear casual sandals to work he would but the dress code is highly enforced so he chooses to stay home and watch television. He feels dilaptidated by the news, uplifted by sitcoms, severly depressed at commercials. He has never felt so much emotion.

The man’s hair was long in the summer of the statewide cruise.

He pretended to drink in excess and destroy personal proprety in order to uphold the commitments that went along with being so fucking metal. The woman wasn’t old, she was very young, even still, and once he saw her chop off most of her hair in a kitchen with dull scissors. He felt embarrassed watching her, and imagined an earthquake or other severe natural disaster where the repercussions would be heavy objects falling, the dull scissors gauging out the woman’s eyes, and therefore losing her beauty and sense of humor. He is gratified by the feeling of others losing essential attributes. It is true that you can chop off your hair or grow it very long when you are still very young. Society embraces medium length hair in adulthood. It is acceptable.

The man is sure of the fact that the woman would call him bland and indecisive if she asked.

After watching television for fifteen hours he wants to put something unlikely in his food processor, a pineapple or a shoe. He would like to see something pulverized into a fine dust and feels like he ate a million bad fish. His hands shake and the man wishes he paid more attention to consequences. In place of sleeping at night he would like to plan out all of the meals he will have for the rest of his life. All he can think of, though, is pizza.