This Waking Life

There was no pain.

            He dreamed he was falling through a dark, endless void, but the void held no fear for him. Time was imperceptible here; it could have been only a brief moment or an eternity. He was comfortable and safe. Nothing could harm him.

            When he awoke, he could feel a faint warm tingling sensation crawling across his skin. The transition from sleep to consciousness was smooth and barely noticeable: one minute he was falling and the next he was lying on a soft cot, surrounded by a brilliant white light that seemed to emanate from nowhere. There were four solid walls that looked like alabaster, polished to a high shine and smooth. A silver chair sat in one corner. The room was otherwise featureless.

            A door on the wall opposite him he had not noticed before slowly opened and a tall, chiseled man with gray hair and cold gray eyes entered. A kind of benign air preceded him, seemed to ooze from him. “Michael,” the man said.

            Am I dreaming? Michael wondered, and realized he had spoken aloud.

            “No,” the man replied. His voice was soft and mellifluous, and somehow put Michael at ease.

            “How do you know my name?”

            “I know much and more.”

            “Where am I?” Michael sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Every muscle in his body felt relaxed. It was a feeling he could scarcely put into words but was ultimately blissful. “This isn’t my house.”

            “Are you afraid?”

            Michael paused and wondered for a moment. “No,” he finally replied. “This has to be a dream.”

            “You may think of it that way if you wish.”

            “What does that mean?” He was clad in a small white undershirt and white shorts, clothes that were not his own.

            “It will be made clear in time.”

            Michael ran a hand through his curly black hair. “Where am I, then?”

            “So many questions. That is understandable.”

            “Answer me,” he implored, beginning to feel frustrated.

            “Even if I told you, you would not believe. Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

            Memories of pain and anguish leapt up unbidden to lap at the shores of his mind. Detached sensations of fear and despair. His head was clouded in a thick fog. “I don’t know.” He felt confused, but he was still at ease. The bizarre notion that he was not awake would not leave. He had never felt so relaxed in all his life.

            The man pulled up the chair and sat down, crossing his legs. “Try harder.”

            Michael closed his eyes. The warm sensation spread throughout his bones, began to envelop him. The light pressed against his eyelids and began to burn brighter. A picture resolved itself in his mind. A bright star burned above him. Everything was brightness, blinding him.

            “What do you see?”

            “The sun.” And just like that, the fog began to dissipate.

            “Keep going.”

Michael rolled over and thrust himself deep inside his girlfriend.

            Elizabeth arched her back and moaned, “Oh, Mikey.”

            He loved it when she said his name like that. He leaned down to engulf her mouth, their tongues desperately scrambling for purchase. The sun poured in through his open bedroom window, glistening off his milky brown skin. Nails now dug into that skin, scraping down his back. “Ouch,” he said, biting off her kiss with a grin.

            An hour later found them both lying on their backs, drenched in sweat, in the throes of young love. The heat was unbelievable, and Michael’s mother had refused to turn on the air conditioner. Today was their one-year anniversary, and most of his classmates hadn’t thought it would last this long. Eighteen wasn’t exactly the most forward-thinking age, but somehow Michael and Elizabeth had made it last.

            “When will your mom be home?” Elizabeth asked.

            Michael spread his legs and stretched out, basking in the afterglow. “Relax, we still have time.”

            “You want to go again?” Her small breasts heaved with each breath.

            “No way, I’m spent. Don’t you have homework?”

            “It can wait,” she said and leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

            They both rose and slowly dressed, then sat back down on the bed. Michael lit a cigarette, which they passed back and forth, each taking a couple drags at a time. “Should we be smoking indoors?” she asked.

            “You worry too much, babe.” He stretched his arm out and handed her the cigarette.

            She grasped his wrist, noticing the marks on his arm. Hesitation marks. “Michael, again?”

            His cheeks flushed and he pulled his arm away, averting his gaze. “They’re old.”

            “You’re a poor liar.”

            No response.

            “Mikey, honey, I thought we talked about this. You said you were going to see a doctor. How do you think this makes me feel? How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

            Another silence. They both sat there, feeling awkward, smoke hanging lazily in the air. Not a breeze stirred. “My mom can’t know,” he finally said.

            “I never said I was going to tell her. But you have to do something. You need to get help.”

            “What if they lock me up? What if they take me away from you?” he asked, his voice suddenly full of dread.

            Always the voice of reason, Elizabeth snapped back, “Don’t you think I’m a little afraid of losing you too? If you really love me, you’ll tell someone. Every time you…you do this, it’s like,” her voice choked off, “it’s like you’re cutting into me too.”

            Michael twirled a piece of his hair through his fingers as he pondered this. Elizabeth was right; he had been battling a great depression for almost a year now, but now it was escalating. The self-harming had started right after school ended. Unlike most of his classmates, Michael hadn’t been ready to graduate. He was afraid of the real world, of being an adult. He didn’t have any skills to speak of, hadn’t applied to any schools. Ostensibly speaking, he had no future.

            That is what scared him the most. When Michael tried to look ahead, to see into his own future, all he saw was a deep, bottomless pit. It was black and foreboding. The only thing that kept him tethered to reality was Elizabeth. She was his rock, his lighthouse, the one bright thing in his otherwise dismal life. She didn’t understand his depression, but she had been there for him through the worst of times, and she hadn’t left him. Not even once. Michael couldn’t begin to fathom the pressure it put on her, to have her weather such a constant storm, and he loved her all the more for it.

            He rolled over and looked into her eyes, pleading and desperate. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.” It was all he could come up with.

           “I’m not going anywhere, Mikey. And neither are you.” She leaned in and their lips met, and before he knew it they were rolling around on top of each other again, clothes shed, their sighs and smells mingling with the hot summer air that filled the room, which slowly rose up before escaping out the open window, lost on a breeze. 

Enter the Matrix

My introduction to The Matrix was not by way of the film itself, but rather the film's soundtrack.

The summer of 1999 was winding to an end, and I was nearing my 8th birthday. Anticipation whetted my nerves, I could almost taste the number itself, encroaching on me at an excruciatingly slow pace. I wanted what every seven year old boy wanted: to turn a year older.

The other thing I remember wanting the most, nearly as badly, and all the more urgently, was to see The Matrix. As I ran and swung and jumped and played outside, enjoying the cooling weather and long nights, I can remember hearing music playing from one of the second story windows on the back of my parent's house. My older sister, then freshly turned sixteen, had purchased the soundtrack to The Matrix and frequently played it on her stereo with the window open, and the sounds drifted down toward me in my youthful exercise. Sounds of Rob Zombie, Deftones, Prodigy, Marilyn Manson and Rammstein filled my ears, foreign invaders that I did not yet recognize or know well enough (let alone foresee that they would later be artists I listened to regularly and enjoyed) but titillated me and aroused the senses. This music was hard and heavy and somehow intrinsically for adults. It felt forbidden, so it was naturally attractive.

The Matrix was my introduction into a world of hard rock, hormones, confusion and excitement that would later define my teenage years. As the soundtrack pumped in my head at all hours (inevitably keeping me awake at night, sometimes tapping my foot under the sheets), I began to feel curious about this music and where it came from. I asked my sister one day "What is this?"

"Music from The Matrix," she replied.

"What is The Matrix?"

"An awesome movie that you're too young to watch," was her response.

This infuriated me. I was determined to see this movie. I began seeing trailers for the film on television (as it was just now coming out on home video) and I had no idea what they represented. I could not tease out the meaning of this film, what it was about, or what happened in it. All I knew was I had to see it. There were guns, action, loud music, and kung fu. It was like a wet dream. And indeed I did dream about it. I distinctly remember having at least one nocturnal excursion into this world that I had made up in my head, where action replaced the boredom and tediousness of daily life, and heroes were worshiped. I dreamed of watching this movie and loving it unconditionally. It began to feel like a close friend that I sorely missed.

One weekend my grandmother brought me to her house for a visit, and in the course of my usual merriment in her basement of toys, television, and computer games, she proposed we hit up the local video store and watch a movie. My heart skipped a beat. Now was my chance! I could finally see The Matrix. We browsed the aisles of the store, as she picked up movies at random, but I paid no mind to her suggestions. I was on a mission, a warpath. I wanted one thing and one thing only. Finally I found it. The cover itself screamed cool. All cool blue and grey-toned color scheme, badass dude with sunglasses in the middle gripping an assault rifle, the title all jagged in digital-techno lettering that seemed to sum up my fascination with computers and hacking as America transitioned into a new age, just as I too was being immersed in this world of technology. The Matrix appealed to me in every conceivable way; it seemed to arouse all five senses, stimulated me almost spiritually or sexually.

I showed it to my grandmother, who summarily dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "No way, Kevin. Too violent," she said.

I was crushed. Infuriated. Moved near to tears. As I was ushered toward the front door, mediocre movies in hand, I took one last glance behind me and longed for what was rapidly moving out of my grasp. It seemed like I would never get to watch this film. Adulthood could not come fast enough. Then I'd be able to watch whatever I wanted, when I wanted!

*

I did finally see The Matrix, although it was nearly another month. My sister picked it up for me in secret, I watched it huddled close to the television in my living room, eyes glued to the screen. I could not comprehend what I was seeing, watching it for the first time. I had little to no idea what was going on, what the plot was trying to communicate, and absolutely no clue what the themes of the movie represented or what it was trying to say. All I knew was it had action. 

And oh boy, was the action glorious. 

I loved it, lapped it up, couldn't get enough of it. I was a fuckin' action junkie, hooked from that point on. I re-enacted scenes in my bedroom, jumping around and diving onto my bed, arms outstretched, miming shooting pistols in slow motion. 

More than halfway through the film, what I remember most clearly was seeing the scene in the elevator lobby where Neo and Trinity take down a group of armored guards and rip the place apart, before ascending higher into the building and detonating a bomb on the floors below. This was the moment I fell in love with cinema, head over heels fucking enamored with movies and what they could do, what they could stimulate inside me. Levels of excitement and pleasure previously unknown and normally reserved for the most carnal acts washed over me as I devoured that scene over and over, the climax coming when Neo dodges the bullets the agent fires at him in slow motion, arms outstretched, grimace on his face. I wanted so desperately to be this guy, to do the things he could. I wanted to escape the confines of my reality and live out my most wild fantasies. The Matrix opened all these doors and more within my mind, my imagination running amok. 

I still know every frame, every beat, every bullet, every nuance of that scene by heart. The rest of the film from that point onward only sustained my orgasm every time I watched it. It was like being transported into a world of bliss that I could not have even imagined yet in my short life. 

I cannot count how many times I've seen The Matrix since then. It instantly became and still remains to this day my favorite film of all time. As I grew into an adult, my taste expanded, my interests changed, I became more acquainted with the world and slowly but surely transitioned into and through puberty, and as I type this I am now twenty-one years of age, a man by any definition, but my love for The Matrix has not changed. I celebrate the entire trilogy, and can recall when I saved up enough money to buy all the films on blu-ray. I've seen every second of bonus material on those discs, they are stored in the special vault in my heart reserved just for The Matrix. Watching the film now is more like a ritual, but I do not feel as though I am going through the paces. It is like visiting an old friend, catching up, reminiscing on the good old days, kicking back a few beers. It can transport me from any state of mind back to childhood, innocence, ignorance, and bliss captured magnificently in my memory. It is a classic. It will not age, just as the boy playing outside on the swings, listening to heavy music, seeing above the neighbor's fence and beyond as he careens out, will never age, bound to that brief spot in time for eternity. 

It's Not Safe to Swim Today

Leaving my side of town again for some new destination, some new place to call home, is as frightening as anything I’ve done in the past year. Since the last time I left home.
Again.

And again.

I can’t remember the last time I laid down roots and felt comfortable enough to call that place home since high school, or even before. And that’s the most distressing feeling I have right now. An extreme lack of sense of place and permanence and comfort and security. These are necessary things for a happy productive life. Which now seems farther and farther from my grasp. Apparently I’m not good enough anywhere.

I may not be the most industrious person in the world, Lord knows, but I did not fail to pull enough weight. I may not be the nicest person in the world, Lord knows, or the easiest to constantly get along with, but I did not fail to make friends. So now, in the wake of severe boredom and a feeling distinctly like spiraling through a void, given all this time to contemplate, I now ask myself the inevitable question of where exactly I went wrong. Of course, just as natural as the question itself is, so too is the answer naturally lent to it: and that is that there isn’t one. Lack of answers. Lack of place. Lack of permanence. I suppose it’s true that the only constant in life is change, but I’m not getting any better at dealing with the changes. There is something, that seems to me, inherently unnatural about being bounced from place to place so often. If you had told me, back when I was a teenager, or even a bright-eyed youngster, free and innocent and in place and permanent, that this is what your twenties are like, I would have told you to put me in an electric chair and fry me after my nineteenth birthday.

Because this is stupid.

That’s the only word for it. No poetry here, no sublime misdirection or flight of fancy vocab, just plain old fucking stupidity. Other people aren’t like this. What did I do to deserve it? I swear, by gods, one day I will find whoever dealt me this hand and their death shall not be swift. I will exact my vengeance slowly. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and so I shall wait. Patient and brooding, like the phantom of the proverbial opera, until the stage is set and I can give all these fuckers their what for.

Failure, it would seem, is also the new constant in my life. I cannot point to a single act I committed over the past twelve months and say with any certainty that it was, or even vaguely resembles, an accomplishment. That it was something I completed and did well. Remember back in grade school when the teacher would grade us with an S or a U? I’d even settle for satisfactory. As in, not stellar, and not above nor beyond, but merely passable, acceptable. I haven’t had that in so long.

Let’s connect the dots in this abysmal wreck I once called a Plan of Action:

Move to Indiana. Get a job. Work over the summer. Go to school. Make good grades. Successfully transition to my new house. Rinse and repeat.

Check. Check. Failed. Check. Failed. Failed. We’re 50/50 so far, and it doesn’t get much better when you throw in all the unforeseen variables. Have a nervous breakdown: check. End up homeless. Twice. Check. Wow, look at you buddy.

And now, in the midst of this smoking disasterscene, I’m being bombarded by requests and importations to flee back to the southwest, into the arms of…I don’t know. Security? Maybe. Success? Possibly. With enough work. But happiness? Fulfillment? No. Most certainly not. Maybe I’m not capable of being happy yet, maybe I haven’t learned how. But some inexorable force, some unnamed element, some divine tugging, some unexplainable cosmic power keeps me tethered to Indiana. I cannot leave her. She is my Mecca and Medina, my Plymouth Rock, my beacon, my lighthouse, my shelter from the storm that is my life. And make no mistake, these waters are not calm. They are treacherous and filled with peril. Batten down the hatches, men.

We’re in for the long haul.

P.S.

Fuck you.

He and Me

He obsessively brushed his teeth every day.

He did this because he knew many people in his life who did not brush their teeth daily, and he found this habit abominably disgusting. So every morning, as soon as he woke, and right after he urinated, he furiously put brush to tooth and scrubbed until his gums nearly bled. He usually awoke with a fierce erection, making his flight to the bathroom even more urgent. He was terrified of someone noticing his erect penis, standing proudly outside his body, parallel to the floor, and sometimes had to walk with a hunch or abruptly turn around and pretend he meant to be heading in an opposite direction if he encountered someone in the hallway, already up before him.

This was part of his ritual, which, in his mind, helped define him and bring his entire sense of self into focus. He believed he was the sum of all the things he did, which was unfortunate, because he did not do much. He was a college student, but he neglected his studies. He was a writer, but he neglected the page. He was unemployed and terrified of labor, avoiding it at all costs. Thus, as he was not a very productive person, he felt that his identity was slowly slipping away, or perhaps being taken from him, because he was not entirely sure why he was so inept. To put it simply, he believed he was not capable of doing things that other people did.

Of what other people actually did he was not entirely sure, because he did not yet, in his formative age of twenty-one years, understand the meaning of life, so to speak. Whether it was to work and die (the thought of which petrified him), or form close personal connections with others (which seemed extremely difficult), or get married and have children (which eluded him because of his sexual preferences), or create art (which he was not convinced he was capable of doing either).

In the end, he settled on becoming a consumer. And consume he did.

He gorged himself on fiction and literature, absolutely devoured electronic entertainment, and spent hours transfixed in front of the television. The arts soon came to define who he was, and he found he was nothing more than the sum of the things he was consuming. This was just as distressing as his innate lack of productivity, and ultimately did nothing to help secure his place in the world. He still felt as though he were drifting through time and space, selfishly taking all that he could while giving nothing back.

He was a chronic masturbator, although not because he was sex-deprived. Whenever he had sex (or whenever he ejaculated, period), he felt a deep emptiness afterward that the ecstatic sensations he had just delighted in had not filled. This was not conducive to maintaining a loving relationship with someone, intimately or otherwise, and so he was ostensibly all alone. Masturbating, however, the act itself, frequently made him feel, in the doing of it, that he was getting closer to God, or some mystical force that controlled everyone and everything by subtly manipulating the strings, like some puppeteer of pleasure, and that, while he was doing it, he could almost feel the direct tug on his own invisible strings, the ones that somehow, when wound all together, formed a vast tapestry that he supposed could be called his soul. He was also entirely convinced that absolutely no one else felt this way, so he shared these thoughts with no one.

He frequently wondered whether other people were happy. He liked to imagine that they were, but he was never quite sure. It comforted him, in a bizarre way, to think that there was some magical formula to being happy that he just hadn't discovered yet. Perhaps this being happy, this imaginary thing, was the key to self-identification that he was missing. He began to think that maybe he was not himself, but rather someone else, and that all his attempts to become himself had failed so miserably because he was not, in fact, himself, and could never be himself. But he did not know how to be anyone else other than himself, and since he despised himself and his consuming nature and his existential crises, he felt that his self was most definitely being sucked into a black hole of nothingness and that his entire self was actually made of nothing, that nothingness had somehow become substance, and it was so all-encompassing he could almost reach out and feel it, feel the nothingness flowing through and of him.

So if he was not himself, then who could he be? It suddenly dawned on him that he was me, and I was him, and this startling revelation was so incomprehensible, the ramifications so unfathomable, that he exploded. And all the tiny pieces of himself went spiraling through the time and space of nothingness, and landed squarely in my lap, and I thought to myself how unfortunate that I should be so unlucky as to be this poor sap.

Time Out

What is everyone's fascination with drugs? Specifically, marijuana. That's what we're talking about here. 

I've been a staunch anti-drug advocate for most of my adult life. 

Which isn't to say I've never smoked, never tried it. I have. Numerous times.

I just don't get it. I'm a reasonable guy, smart, rational (to an extent), and pretty open-minded. But I never have, still don't, understand people's fascination with marijuana. 

Frankly, it's fucking stupid. Come at me. 

That's right. I said it. It's stupid, and pointless, and a waste of your time and money. It smells like shit, it doesn't make you smarter, or more fashionable, or more creative. 

I grew up with stoners. My friends in school were stoners. My mother was a stoner for a while. I live with stoners. What I mean to say is, I'm not like completely ignorant of this stuff. I see what it does to people. I'm experienced. I just still don't get it. 

And frankly, I'm tired of all the people pushing for legislation to make pot legal. What's the point, honestly? Think about it for a second. Don't misunderstand, I've heard all the arguments before, and I already know what everyone will say. But taxes. But liberty. But freedom. But happy. But feel-good. 

But I don't care, honestly. About taxes, or your liberties, or what makes you feel good. I don't care if alcohol is more dangerous, more addictive, or more deadly. I don't care about any of that. 

I never have and I never will. 

The truth is, if you get high, you and I will never have a close, meaningful, real relationship. Not the way I will with a sober person. It's just not possible. We are leagues apart, might as well be living on different planets. You engage in something that I literally do not comprehend on the most fundamental level, and that makes it pretty hard to relate. It's like knowing someone, and talking to them, but you're seeing them from across a gulf. 

And I know it's not a gateway drug, and that it won't kill you, and that you aren't becoming more violent or aggressive. I still don't care, and I don't get it. I don't like it. 

So why bother writing about it? Because it plays such a prominent role in my life. I never wanted it to, but it does. And I hate it. I'm around drug dealers and stoners every day. It robs them of their ambition. It inspires laziness. It discourages productivity. It renders deep, meaningful conversation impossible. 

That's what it really boils down to. I like talking to people. I like getting to know them, probing their minds. Seeing what makes them tick. It's sort of my job. But a high person has no depths to plumb. It's like unscrewing someone's head, all giddy with excitement, then finding...nothing inside. There's nothing to talk about. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not that bitter. Do your thing, do what makes you feel good. I'd just prefer you didn't do it around me. Because I don't like it. 

So again I ask, what's the big deal anyway? It's more of a rhetorical question. I don't actually want to know, nor do I care. Every answer everyone has ever given me is the same regurgitated, tired bullshit. Everyone keeps imagining this golden future with weed everywhere, on every street corner, at your local pharmacy, cops winking at you from across the street. A whole population united together in smiles and munchies and good will. 

That future scares me. I hate that future. I don't want to live in it. Imagine the opposite for a second. Just for a second. 

Imagine a future with no drugs, ever. Everyone's just the way they normally are all the time, perfectly clean and sober. 

Would it really be so bad? Would that be such a huge deal? 

Actually, what if instead of getting high, you just didn't get high? 

Don't bother answering. 

Tournament of Lies

Pure laziness...

      Back to Channel Five news. “Our main story tonight: deadly killer strikes again, claiming another victim last night. Police say the man, 32 year old Calvin Trank, was found floating in a small creek behind his apartment on the east side of town, genitals mutilated and removed…”

            Flip. “A new study indicates suicide rates are skyrocketing in America, especially among veterans, and now is the number one cause of death by injury…”

            Well that was certainly disheartening. What on earth was happening to people? Jeffrey could hardly make sense of all this craziness. He pushed a button and landed on more news. News, news, news, he thought. I’m ashamed to be a part of this. Hell, I’m almost ashamed to live in this country anymore.

            Almost.

            “A local middle school teacher was arrested this afternoon on charges of exposing himself to his students in the middle of class. Sources tell us Mr. Michael McKenzie pulled down his pants and was wearing, quote, ‘A bright red thong.’ The district superintendent could not be reached for comment.”

            Switch.

            “Today police raided a known meth lab in a downtown neighborhood…”  

            Jeffrey pushed his tray away from him and stuck one finger in his ear, then ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. Dandruff fell like snow from his scalp and dotted his black button-up shirt. He got up to throw away his empty tray, the trash can in the kitchen overflowing with refuse. Two flies landed on an empty beer bottle and promptly shit on it.

            Switch.

            A music video was playing. A large pair of voluptuous tits bounced on the screen, liquor pouring down them in slow-motion. Disgusting.

            Flip.

            “…and the authorities have no known suspects at this time.

            Flip.

            “Two students walked in and opened fire this morning with a 12-gauge shotgun, killing five people and wounding…”

            Jeffrey stopped. “Well that is awful!” he declared. He felt sorry for all the dead students. He changed the channel again.

            “Another baby was found in a dumpster this afternoon; authorities were called after…”

            He banged his fist on the dinner tray. “This is a disaster!” he bellowed. He felt sorry for the dead baby.

            Flip.

            Glenn Beck.

            “This is a fucking outrage!” he screamed. He felt sorry for everyone.

            Jeffrey stood up and turned off the television. It was like this every evening. He could only take so much. I need a sandwich, he decided.

            Jeffrey walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, the bright glow illuminating a series of dismembered penises dangling from hooks, which he brushed aside, and grabbed the mayonnaise. He really did feel sorry for everyone.

Lenny Bruce Is Not Afraid

It was a dark and stormy night.
      Or, at least, that’s what the news report had said. Jeffrey couldn’t hear any rain outside, so the weatherman was probably wrong. Motherfucker. He was always lying. To Jeffrey, to everyone.
In fact, it wasn’t even really nighttime. The sun was just now dipping below the clouds. It was more like twilight. But Jeffrey had all the shades drawn, aluminum foil taped to the corners of his windows and large black curtains that wrapped around the blinds. His apartment was entirely dark. He lived up on the thirteenth floor, but you couldn’t tell.
      It was like a dungeon.
It was furnished about as extravagantly as well. A single folding chair sat in front of an old television set. This was the kind from before high-def had become all the rage. Jeffrey missed those days. He didn’t know what the fuck a pixel was or how many he was looking at, and he didn’t care.
He also didn’t care for digital cable, so he had had one of those converter boxes installed after the switch a few years back, and the antenna was tucked neatly behind one of his curtains, right up against the window, where it could receive enough signal to at least get the local news.
So that’s what he watched. Every evening. The local news.
He peeled the wet plastic sheet off the top of his microwavable dinner. This was all Jeffrey ate. Behind the chair, which was in front of the TV, in his studio apartment, was a small kitchen counter with a window, which wrapped around in an L-shape and had a single microwave oven sitting next to his convection oven, which he never used. At the end of the counter was his refrigerator, which held only microwavable dinners in the freezer.
Jeffrey didn’t go grocery shopping often.
“And so, authorities spent nearly three hours attempting to remove the woman from her apartment, where she was promptly taken to the hospital and subsequently died when she stroked on the operating table.” The newswoman straightened a pile of paper on her desk, and then smiled at the camera.
Her co-anchor, a man named Dan, “Dapper” Dan on Channel Five!, looked over at her. “Wow, what a large woman,” he quipped, attempting to fill the dead air between stories. Jeffrey rolled his eyes.
“Yes, she is rather rotund,” Diana replied, wearing a large plastic smile.
Jeffrey huffed and spooned a large helping of watery mashed potatoes on to his spoon and shoveled them into his mouth. He swallowed loudly. This was pathetic. He couldn’t believe the shit they put on the news nowadays. He grabbed the remote sitting on the arm of his chair and adjusted the tray sitting in front of him, then pressed the CHANNEL UP button with one of his sausage-like fingers.
The TV landed on some reality show where peopled are candidly filmed ordering fast food in a popular restaurant, and when their meal is ready the cashier, a celebrity in disguise, throws the food in the patron’s face and laughs hysterically as the cameras capture their shocked reactions. Jeffrey didn’t much care for this show.
It seemed like a waste of good food.
He flipped the channel again.
Entertainment news now. Jeffrey sighed again, and grabbed the over-nuked brownie from the plastic tray and popped it in his mouth whole, chewing with his mouth open and working the rubbery chocolate into a malleable, swallowable material.
This was garbage. Nothing but attractive, overpaid people telling you about more attractive, overpaid people, and how much you needed to be more like them. Jeffrey hated celebrities.
They fucking disgusted him.
“Tupac sightings in Chile today, and then later see what Tom Cruise said when our cameras caught up with him! But first!” And then there was some video of a paparazzo running up to some other celebrity in the airport. They started to say something. “Go fuck yourself,” was the quick response.
Jeffrey nearly choked on his brownie. This shit counts as news, now? Dear Lord, he thought. Save us.
Jeffrey didn’t have a girlfriend. The main reason why is that the last girl he was with kept telling him to be quiet when the entertainment news was on.