I wake up late again, uncharacteristically sad and inept.
I have a cheese omelet for breakfast and watch the news. They’re still arguing over who bombed that hospital full of people in Gaza. The Palestinians blame the Israelis. The Israelis blame the Palestinians. I can’t tell them apart so I hate them both.
I meet my friends in the city. We shoot the breeze in a wonderful café with interesting paintings on the walls, unapologetically avant-garde I would say. The coffee and the croissants are exceptional. I order more.
We play a game of football. I score 6 goals, one from a free kick à la Beckham. Everyone is jealous. I feel so good about myself. I feel like God.
I’m home again, a mere mortal. They still haven’t figured out who really bombed that hospital in Gaza. I conclude that it doesn’t matter. People believe what they want to believe. It’s always been that way.
Some dumb cunt on CNN is audaciously anti-Semitic and I chuckle. I love it when progressives show their true colors in times of horror, don’t you?
I’m bored. I play Starfield. I solemnly declare jihad like I did in Oblivion and go on a murderous rampage in New Atlantis. Hundreds die by my cool guns. The whole universe shall feel my wrath! I say out loud.
It’s raining. It sucks. I sometimes hate rain. Maybe I should listen to music. Or maybe not. Starfield it is.
I suddenly remember that I have to get shit done and freak the fuck out. I teleport back to Earth and light up a joint. I work from home these days but I have deadlines to meet. They are never met, to tell you the truth, these damn deadlines.
I work for 3 hours straight, no breaks, writing stuff on my laptop. It’s the joint. A great achievement, nonetheless. I celebrate with a beer.
I’m bored again. I play another round of Starfield and issue a verdict. The missions are boring, the gunplay is mediocre, everything is stupid and gay. 3/10. Don’t buy this crap.
It’s dark outside. I trot into the kitchen and make myself a turkey sandwich with extra mayonnaise. I drink another beer. I eat and drink in my underpants all by myself, staring at the fridge, such a depressing scene.
I watch a movie and try to think of something witty to tweet but can’t think of anything. If I had a gun to my head I’d be dead. God I suck. I’m a joke.
I pick up the phone. I quarrel with retards online and love it. I use all kinds of slurs and I’m ultimately forced to drop an N-bomb, the most lethal bomb of them all. I drop it and emerge victorious once more. I take it back – I’m not a joke.
I try to convince myself that I’m a good person. Why even bother? It can’t be done.
I seek no answers, no solutions… not anymore.
It’s late. I’m tired. I turn off the lights and shut down.