I tried reading a classic today. 1950s pulp sci-fi. It didn’t work. The words just swam on the page like a school of bored tuna. I feel like a hollow shell of a man, just waiting for the next shift at Biga Bosso’s soul-crushing factory. *sigh* Even my vintage ties look sad today. I need to get out of this headspace. Maybe I’ll go play games until my eyes bleed.
Staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is staring back. My apartment is so quiet I can hear my own hair growing. I am so bored I started organizing my ties by decade. I only have ties from one decade. This is a very fast game. I need to get out of this box. I need to do something that isn’t work or an arcade. I am rotting! A very handsome, well-dressed rot!
Back to the freezer. My breath is fogging up my laptop screen. I am typing with gloves on. Typing with gloves is an extreme sport. Yuo llok lijke a tiot! See? That was me trying to type “You look like an idiot!” I am an idiot! A freezing, lonely idiot in a foreign country! W00t! Feel the chill! Send me thermal underwear! Send me a bonfire!
I haven’t slept in two days. The walls of my tiny apartment are closing in. I started talking to my vintage oxfords. They gave me some solid life advice. “Shine us, Josh. Polish the pain away.” THEY ARE RIGHT. I am polishing the pain away! I am a machine! I drank four coffees and my heart is vibrating in D-minor. If I explode, make sure they bury me in my gabardine!