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Aug. 25th, 2006 05:29 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darwins_despairI just needed to write something. It's... not great, but you should read it anyway.
I watch the smoke curl and twist in the twilight filtering through my window. My half finished cigarette sits in the ashtray as I reflect on the man I used to be. There was a time in my life when I couldn't wait to grow up. It was everything I aspired to be. My father was the hugest man in the universe and mom knew everything. Now I'm disheveled shell of man. My vices are who I am. I am the drinking, smoking, office drone.
I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up. Then I wanted to be an astronaut. Like every other kid I dreamed of being things that seemed to be the coolest job in the world. Little did I realize that you needed to have an education for those kinds of things. Now what do I do? I count numbers as I watch day after day peel away on the calendar, rotting away in a cubicle just waiting for the clock to strike five.
I couldn't wait to be an adult. I guess I didn't realize that being an adult meant responsibilities and deciding weather "final notice" or "ultimate notice" was a more urgent bill. I never realized that being an adult meant working a shit job only to come home to an empty shit apartment with the paint peeling and the sounds of shoot outs every evening just down the block. The only thing that makes me happy is my cat. I'm gone all day from working pissing and moaning about how the world is so unfair to me, but no matter what she's waiting for me at the door.
I open the door and she's waiting for me, circling around my feet and mewing happily, ready to curl up into my lap as soon as I take a seat. She somehow makes all the troubles melt away. My addictions don't matter. My job that doesn't pay enough doesn't matter. The fact that I have to decide between rent and groceries doesn't matter. The one thing that matters is her unconditional love.
The smoke gets in my eyes. I have to get up and do something about it, or the cat is going to be bothered too. She may love me, but she hates how much I smoke. It's funny how animals seem to care more about you than you do yourself. The cigarette is burned down to the filter now.
A waste of a perfectly good cigarette.
I get up to empty out the ashtray, and I see the gun laying there on the table. Funny the things that run through your mind in moments like this. I know I could never do anything. I always threaten, saying that nobody cares, but it ends up the same. I'll start writing the note, but then it'll start to bother me. Who's going to tell my parents? Who's going to tell my boss? Most importantly, who's going to feed the cat? I'd hate to think what my parents would think of me if they found me laying on the floor, pile of dishes in the sink, cat practically dying from starvation, and the cigarette butts.
My parents don't even know I smoke. They always told me how only bad people smoke. How I would go to hell. Of course, they also told me that sitting too close to the television would make me go blind, so what do parents know?
Once I hit puberty I told myself I would never become my parents, and god willing I never did. My parents were successful with cool jobs and 2.5 kids. Me? I'm single and my only friend is my cat. She's asleep in my lap now. Purring. She's so cute when she sleeps. I stroke her back and she lets out a barely audible mew. There's no way I couldn't smile at something like this. She's probably the only thing keeping me around. I know that no matter how fucked up the world gets, the cat will always be there for me.
I say I'll do it, but I know I never will. I get halfway through the note and it turns into a shopping list.
Oh well. The sun has finally set, and tomorrow's another day.
Goodnight, cat.
I watch the smoke curl and twist in the twilight filtering through my window. My half finished cigarette sits in the ashtray as I reflect on the man I used to be. There was a time in my life when I couldn't wait to grow up. It was everything I aspired to be. My father was the hugest man in the universe and mom knew everything. Now I'm disheveled shell of man. My vices are who I am. I am the drinking, smoking, office drone.
I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up. Then I wanted to be an astronaut. Like every other kid I dreamed of being things that seemed to be the coolest job in the world. Little did I realize that you needed to have an education for those kinds of things. Now what do I do? I count numbers as I watch day after day peel away on the calendar, rotting away in a cubicle just waiting for the clock to strike five.
I couldn't wait to be an adult. I guess I didn't realize that being an adult meant responsibilities and deciding weather "final notice" or "ultimate notice" was a more urgent bill. I never realized that being an adult meant working a shit job only to come home to an empty shit apartment with the paint peeling and the sounds of shoot outs every evening just down the block. The only thing that makes me happy is my cat. I'm gone all day from working pissing and moaning about how the world is so unfair to me, but no matter what she's waiting for me at the door.
I open the door and she's waiting for me, circling around my feet and mewing happily, ready to curl up into my lap as soon as I take a seat. She somehow makes all the troubles melt away. My addictions don't matter. My job that doesn't pay enough doesn't matter. The fact that I have to decide between rent and groceries doesn't matter. The one thing that matters is her unconditional love.
The smoke gets in my eyes. I have to get up and do something about it, or the cat is going to be bothered too. She may love me, but she hates how much I smoke. It's funny how animals seem to care more about you than you do yourself. The cigarette is burned down to the filter now.
A waste of a perfectly good cigarette.
I get up to empty out the ashtray, and I see the gun laying there on the table. Funny the things that run through your mind in moments like this. I know I could never do anything. I always threaten, saying that nobody cares, but it ends up the same. I'll start writing the note, but then it'll start to bother me. Who's going to tell my parents? Who's going to tell my boss? Most importantly, who's going to feed the cat? I'd hate to think what my parents would think of me if they found me laying on the floor, pile of dishes in the sink, cat practically dying from starvation, and the cigarette butts.
My parents don't even know I smoke. They always told me how only bad people smoke. How I would go to hell. Of course, they also told me that sitting too close to the television would make me go blind, so what do parents know?
Once I hit puberty I told myself I would never become my parents, and god willing I never did. My parents were successful with cool jobs and 2.5 kids. Me? I'm single and my only friend is my cat. She's asleep in my lap now. Purring. She's so cute when she sleeps. I stroke her back and she lets out a barely audible mew. There's no way I couldn't smile at something like this. She's probably the only thing keeping me around. I know that no matter how fucked up the world gets, the cat will always be there for me.
I say I'll do it, but I know I never will. I get halfway through the note and it turns into a shopping list.
Oh well. The sun has finally set, and tomorrow's another day.
Goodnight, cat.
