Wrong side of the bed
The morning glares aggressively at me, warning me not to get in its way. If I could, today I would have gotten out the wrong side of the bed, but even that wasn’t possible because the wall was in the way. Damn wall, spoiling my morning before I even got up. Then vomit on an unclothed comforter, a computer that wouldn’t wake up and another one that wouldn’t go to sleep, and me in the middle wondering how thread is made; wondering where the thread in this lays.
A guy outside does a quick ska dance, laughing, and my brow furrows in frustration at his insensitivity. People are not allowed to have fun at times like this. Wrong side of the bed wouldn’t let me out this morning. Not even the wrong side of the bed is on my side.
Why are people so proud to have an attitude? I have one now and it sucks. An attitude is just a sign of discontent: “Hi everybody, I’m fucked up and pissed off, aren’t I cool?” No. You’re a sad piece of shit is all. And you know it.
And through all this I know that none of it is true. My tongue darts from the acid to my cheek and I lie to convince myself that I’m as bad as I want to be. Why would I want to be bad? I know I prefer enjoyment, and yet I will do all I can to ward it off, like it could infect me with an incurable malady. And that leaves me with malaise. And I got what I asked for by trying to get in its way: I stepped in and it smeared its malodorous gunk all over me. Checkmate!
Gee, I’m a funny bastard.