Early morning commute with light snow falling. Coffee lingering in the back of the mouth alongside the discontent that pours from the apps online. Apples, oranges, college football. Order a pizza and swing from the vine. Alligator, alligator, pit fall.

Seven struggles and it’ll be a weekend in therapy. Jokes on jokes on jokes.

Waiting for the bus. Hanging by a fingernail. Can I call you later?

All you do is write the same goddamn thing over and over. A couple of short sentences stapled together in rhythm, followed by a handful more than stretch out into something that more closely resembles a narrative. All of which is punctuated by some abrupt ending that leaves the reader wondering. It’s like the breathing that follows any kind of anaerobic activity in that it always seems to be fast paced, short and intense until it isn’t.

There is nothing new here and you’re nothing special and the self-loathing is aging out and so are you. Nobody is going to stumble onto your little corner of the internet and even if they did, what do you believe they’d find? More importantly, how do you believe they’d respond? Nobody gives a shit. Period. Nobody gives a shit about you or your goddamn words. Nobody gives a shit about themselves. Why they’d stop for a moment and take time to recognize you is question that will never have an answer.

Give up.

Don’t take the phone call.

Swap the garbage bags. Sweep the floor. Cut the ice. Shut your fucking mouth.