I swear I don’t do this often.
By “this”, I mean posting shit about myself that none of you could possibly care about. I also probably mean whining too. Cuz I’m not gonna lie, this could possibly be construed as whining. To me, whining would be if I were to relate the events that I will shortly relate, and then assert that these events mean my life is shit and that the breaking of my coffee decanter plunged me headlong into blackest depression. It’s not, and it didn’t: there won’t be anything stronger than exasperation here. Intense exasperation, in some cases, but still exasperation. In fact, the only thing I’d say is remarkable about any of it is the rapid and seemingly daily occurrence of things that would exasperate one: by Wednesday I was waiting for inanimate objects to defy my will. It would be a bitterly short wait.
Monday: Wake up 30 minutes before due at work. Realize near-flat tire wasn’t aired up last night as intended. Get up, dress, run out door, drive to thieving 50 cent convenience store air compressor down the street with only two quarters in pocket. Pray near-flat tire isn’t being shredded. Air up tire, be too groggy to appreciate that tire is still intact. Drive to work and have rest of day be emblematic of morning.
Tuesday: Bash knee really hard on door at work. Force self to not limp until lunchtime, then lie and say it happened during lunch to avoid bureaucracy. Arrive at home, rest, think to self my knee’s better than I thought it would be, that was lucky, then attempt to stand. Howl wordlessly. Limp for next two days.
Wednesday: Wake up,
stagger limp into kitchen, immediately knock coffee decanter to ground. Stare in disbelief at razor sharp wreckage in bare feet. Dismember black thingie that holds coffee filter, drip coffee directly into mug. Leave broken glass cleanup for later, because FUCK.
Thursday: Resolve to finally solve rare and week-long problem: too many ideas to write about; all are intertwined. Pick most tangled one, spend rest of night trying to not write eighteen essays at once.
Friday: Awaken minutes before computer locks up with previously mentioned and actually good essay displayed, as if to mock me. As if it wanted me to see my ideas die. Resist urge to call in sick.
I think it’s all because I mocked the previous Friday, which was of course the 13th. I even pointed out that 13 used to be a good number before
superstitious idiots perfectly reasonable people who believe that numbers can hurt them slandered its reputation so callously. Thank you, reality, for showing me that uninformed superstition triumphs over an ancient culture’s history, culture and spirituality.
That’s just fucking great isn’t it.
Do rhetorical questions get question marks? I’m too busy looking up the number thirteen on Wikipedia. See, back in the day, when some bad shit happened there were, like, thirteen things present. Sometimes. Still, groups of twelve people do bad shit all the time, so why not demonize twelve? Better yet: you know what number was somehow present for every bad thing that has ever happened ever? One. Yes, the loneliest number. I WONDER WHY.
Thanks for reading. Apologies for all this not being relevant to any other human being in any possible way.
Post-script! A few minutes ago: Click away from New Post screen by accident. Hit back and find it blank. Abort imminent blind rage/crying jag with crash course on WordPress draft functionality.