OOC Drabble
I couldn't sleep, so I wrote shit.
No warnings.
A Day In The Life - 1/27/06
A disenfranchised man in his early thirties wakes to the sound of an alarm clock that sounds more like a siren. This man is thirty-two, but he feels older. Thirty-two is the new middle-age, but with the life expectancy increasing as it does, when will the middle-age end? These thoughts are too deep and depressing for 7 AM, a time of day he hasn't seen in years, so he contents himself with thinking about whatever it is defunct males of his age think about.
Sex. Liquor. Drugs. Hockey? Not necessarily in that order.
With every passing day, he loses more and more money. His bank account balance is in the low triple digits and the cost of living is just growing. It's time he tried for a job. He's not qualified for anything, but anyone with a good smile and a solid-colored tie (sometimes not even that) can apply for something in the service industry. Only, he can't tie his tie. It's too difficult--a complex series of knots and tugs that ultimately becomes the businessman's noose. He ventures out into the living room, clean-shaven, hair brushed, collar starched and popped so he looks like a vampire.
His roommate is scrubbing at a stain in the linoleum that has been there before they have and will continue to be there after he leaves. He decides not to tell her how futile her efforts are. Everyone needs a hobby, especially when they don't sleep more than fifteen minutes a day. He asks her to tie his tie and she stands, a collection of gangly limbs, black rings around her eyes. Bruised fruit expression of insomnia. He looks the same way, but today, he washed his face.
Her thin fingers tremble as they twist and turn the tie into the desired shape. He doesn't ask her how she knows how to do this; as far as he knows, this is something a woman knows at birth. She sniffs and snorts and he's perfectly aware of what's coming, but she's not done yet and he'd feel bad pulling away. He asks what's wrong and she says she's not used to his aftershave.
She sneezes and blood splatters his face and shirt like a scatterplot. This is his only clean white shirt.
He pulls the tie from her hands, which have frozen, and goes back to his room. There's always next week, month, and year.
No warnings.
A Day In The Life - 1/27/06
A disenfranchised man in his early thirties wakes to the sound of an alarm clock that sounds more like a siren. This man is thirty-two, but he feels older. Thirty-two is the new middle-age, but with the life expectancy increasing as it does, when will the middle-age end? These thoughts are too deep and depressing for 7 AM, a time of day he hasn't seen in years, so he contents himself with thinking about whatever it is defunct males of his age think about.
Sex. Liquor. Drugs. Hockey? Not necessarily in that order.
With every passing day, he loses more and more money. His bank account balance is in the low triple digits and the cost of living is just growing. It's time he tried for a job. He's not qualified for anything, but anyone with a good smile and a solid-colored tie (sometimes not even that) can apply for something in the service industry. Only, he can't tie his tie. It's too difficult--a complex series of knots and tugs that ultimately becomes the businessman's noose. He ventures out into the living room, clean-shaven, hair brushed, collar starched and popped so he looks like a vampire.
His roommate is scrubbing at a stain in the linoleum that has been there before they have and will continue to be there after he leaves. He decides not to tell her how futile her efforts are. Everyone needs a hobby, especially when they don't sleep more than fifteen minutes a day. He asks her to tie his tie and she stands, a collection of gangly limbs, black rings around her eyes. Bruised fruit expression of insomnia. He looks the same way, but today, he washed his face.
Her thin fingers tremble as they twist and turn the tie into the desired shape. He doesn't ask her how she knows how to do this; as far as he knows, this is something a woman knows at birth. She sniffs and snorts and he's perfectly aware of what's coming, but she's not done yet and he'd feel bad pulling away. He asks what's wrong and she says she's not used to his aftershave.
She sneezes and blood splatters his face and shirt like a scatterplot. This is his only clean white shirt.
He pulls the tie from her hands, which have frozen, and goes back to his room. There's always next week, month, and year.