Self Destruction

If I could condense all the mornings that I’ve lived until now into a list…

It is one of those interesting thoughts that you get while you are on the ceramic throne.

So, picture this guy with his hairs looking like a thick fern bush,

Sloppy eyelids with slimy green jellified lacrimal tears,

Traces of heavy night drooling.

His ten years old t-shirt that’s so comfortable for sleeping looks like a loose fish net.

He is here making disgusting noises with his anus while yawning even more disgustingly.

His face is making horrible grimaces due to his excess love of spicy and fatty food.

Picture him well, make a mental note of each of his features.

His swollen feet that look like a dead fish in these tiny ridiculous thongs.

He look like anachronism.

There is something stupidly primitive in his [stature],

And on the same line the level of sophistication in his body language contrast heavily with the latter,

The bottom lip falling and failing down like a small sausage,

Eyes dead with no sign of intracranial activity …

His smart phone in his left hand is vibrating intermittently from the accumulated notifications that he’s missed during the brief moment before dawn when he switched it off.

After the last bit of defecation reached the water underneath his sweaty anus he starts to feel the usual burning.

He will sit there playing with his anus,

Contracting the ring and relaxing until the pain and burning stopped.

It’s been a ritual these last ten years.

Excesses transformed his body into an old mechanic that needed warm-up

And [idling] before the engine start to [roar] smoothly.

It’s not that old to the point of [bedridden] but like a good wine (decant) you have to let it breath a bit so that the chemistry may start.

He’d then wipe his bottom,

Light up another cigarette,

A bad habit that his body is urging him to lose,

He may wash his hands or forget,

And to complete the ceramic throne ritual he will sit himself in his favorite leatherette arm chair,

Yeah, he’s old enough to have a favorite arm chair.

Eyes closed he’ll led his mind into the morning maze of a new day.

Must not forget to buy the little one’s inhaler

Phone office for that report on last week query from the technical department

What’s the state of my week budget…

Budget! What budget? You’re already in the red.

What if the universe was one small joke, a mind game of some silly dumb super being?

Does it make the universe less? I mean whatever it maybe, it is…hum

Do we really have time for this?

The phone will start ringing,

Hello it’s Jane Doe from technical. [body bag corpses walking and talking]

I’m sorry to fall on you for this so early in the morning (meaning it’s nine thirty you lazy old ass) but you know we have a deadline on this…

Yeah, Yeah, I’m working on it.

He sighs heavily while raising his fat buttock from his favorite leatherette arm chair.

That leatherette arm chair that knows his bottom so intimately that it has a print of it.

[Who spoke about memory foam? Wasn’t invented yet when he bought this]

Now get up, get down.

Exercise life.

How useless.

What a lack of perspective, meaning or whatever.

There’s no meaning to this.