I get off work an hour late and scan my finger to clock out as soon as the floor is swept. I giggle to myself as I walk out the door – what the fuck happened today? Five thousand two hundred loaves, give or take, passed me by in eight hours, so fast I could hardly keep my mind from spinning helplessly out of control. The key slides into the ignition and I back out of the parking space and throw it into drive. Six and a half miles and forty five minutes later I finally get home. Squid is happy to see me. She jumps and whines and swings her tail dangerously about as she dances around me and nips at my pant leg as if to say “give me attention, dick”.
She’s left me presents in the living room and sits looking guilty as I pick up the three large piles of shit she’s left for me on the floor.
Up the stairs I go, down the hall and into my room expecting the worst but find that she’s only tipped over my laundry basket and strewn the dirty rags across the floor – easy to pick up.
I sit down at the computer and she growls, only slightly playfully, ball in her mouth. I snatch the ball from her and throw it out the door and down the hall, quickly grabbing my glass pipe and jar of weed. A long day calls for a high night. Flick, flick, flick and the orange Bic spits fire into the bowl, I inhale, hold, and exhale. I can feel my muscles relax, finally. I write the above lines and read them over, taking another hit. I think about all the things I want to write. Love letters to Grace, the nitty gritty details about my day, the cute girl who had a working interview – the cute girl I hope gets hired so I can say her name when she comes into work, whom I’d like to get to know. I think about Grace again, and feel guilty for wanting to get close to another girl. I’m single, I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’m such a piece of shit though. Back and forth I fight myself internally. Inhale, hold, exhale. Who cares? Why does it matter? I curse myself again for being constantly conflicted, the thousandth time I’ve put a curse on myself in over twenty seven years.
I think about getting a new job – but what’s the point when I’m going going gone in fourteen months.
Here’s to the future. Fire, inhale, hold, life.