Tip:
Highlight text to annotate it
X
Everyday,
I wake up
Eleven minutes late,
to find the TV on,
the fan going,
and the sun blistering through the *** blinds that have become old and crumpled as time's
passed.
As I grab my clothes and walk down the hall towards the communal bathroom,
I can only hope that some *** hasn't used all of the *** toilet paper,
but inevitably—
he has.
This is my morning,
every single day.
The car door slams as I tune the radio to '88.3
The Classicality' with Jerry Stecken.
The real 'Classicality' of course, being the morning commute that seems to
unsurprisingly wind and curve day after day.
It's like watching a movie you've seen time and time again, to the point of almost knowing
the lines better than the actors themselves.
The same drivers, the same cars, pedestrians—for *** sake,
the same damn bird *** in the same damn place on my roof every morning.
For whatever reason,
every time I find this blotchy mess...
I never cease to be surprised.
Sadly, it's the only part of my life that feels unexpected,
when in reality, it's just another dot in the pattern.
As I step out of the car, I look over at the building that seems to provoke the
so-called reason
for the manner in which I'm living.
I begin walking, while at the same time trying to remember what I dreamt the night before,
but of course—
I don't.
Step after step, my optimism seems to uphold me,
only to unavoidably, and swiftly be whisked away as the day will soon settle into unbearable
tediousness.
The stair door creaks and slams behind me while I gaze upon the entirety of the department,
only to solemnly segue way into the corner office that my assistant Candace shares with me.
She and I sit down to begin this meticulous workday as I take a sip of coffee from
a mug that might as well say 'DRONE' in bold letters.
Further and further immersing myself in my supposed camp of normalcy.
After about 3 hours, at precisely 12:36 p.m., Candace makes the journey down
those same tormentful stairs, simply to light up in the courtyard below.
As I watch her drag out her cigarette, I wonder if her life is as desolate as mine,
but knowing her, she could probably give two ***.
At this point,
the only things that seem to ever change in my life are my *** clothes.
I guess you could consider me to be trapped in a sense of true K-MURDA,
never altering myself,
never questioning my own actions—
simply going through the motions of nothingness.
The engine hums along the quiet, night lit streets as I try to remember the
exact details of today's excursion,
only to find that of course—I can't.
But it doesn't matter,
I already know what happened, and even if I didn't, I doubt I'd care one way or another.
Looking up at the building in which I've resided for God only knows how long,
welcomed in by the starch-white walls and fluorescent lighting,
I suddenly began to feel angry at myself,
a feeling I'd all but forgotten.
The dullness, the boredom, the pointlessness of my life has finally become
clear to me.
I'm tired of living an utterly forgettable life,
tired of having no differentiation,
no new experiences.
I guess you could say I'm making this tape as one final recap of my old life,
a self-warning...
To never live in a sense of complete
and unreserved, K-MURDA.