I awaken like the approach and immediate aftermath of a minor car accident. Awake, but not conscious. An awkward and abused puppet, I stumble unwillingly to the bathroom.
My eye sockets are made of rusty steel wool, and my eyeballs float in warm, dirty dishwater. They keep trying to sink back into my head and rejoin my brain as an undifferentiated mass of non-sentient slime.
I tried extra toothpaste, but couldn't brush the furry moth-shit taste out of my mouth. Somewhere below my head, my stomach stirs like a severely-beaten drug addict.
A rough morning. The air around my face is stuffy, prickly, and insistently clinging.
The drive is a greasy, dangerous slide that I barely remember having completed.
Shaken slightly from my coma by the sudden appearance of my grimy parking spot, I momentarily find myself stepping across the hastily buried corpse of the street, the sun inches from my skull.
Just one typical chunk in the long, diarrheic squirt of Mondays I've been sailing across since what seems like time immemorial.
The people around me are waddling blobs. They seem purposeful, whereas I do not feel any purpose at all. I feel like a tiny fragment of instellar space ejected onto this planet to exist for 10 agonizing seconds, wishing to be sucked back into the mindless vacuum.
I suppose I'm just over tired.
My vision focuses a little as I near the glass doors of the office suite. A girl wades timidly past me. For a moment, I consider rushing forward and clothes-lining her.
It has occurred to me before that under the right circumstances, and executed properly, unprovoked physical violence can be damned hilarious.
The office smells like sleep deprivation and dead people. On everything around me is the unmistakeable pattern of the tire tread which has repeatedly run over my face.
I sigh.
"What."
"The."
"Fuck."
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