The Elementary Basis for the Subconscious Mind

I sit now in a room layered in greasy strings of floating smoke. The smell of burning latakia mixed with barley roll cake is stained into the paint, ceiling and curtains. Empty coca cola cans lay out in pairs on the living room table in front of me. The light is dim, outside as well. It's cool, not cold. Inside, my energy-efficient heater is softly humming.

"Se Pieta" is playing from Giulio Cesare. My dogs start at the sound of the rare passing car. They are unsettled and occasionally whine with boredom. The TV is flashing in silence, rolling through some godforsaken rerun of TruTV's "World's Dumbest" that I have recorded.

I'm back from work for the first time since my week off. There is no food. The house is not clean. I'm high as a kite from that horrible fucking cough syrup. I'm contemplating a blazing hot bath.

Nothing today reached it's potential as it seldom has. Things were left unaccomplished, goals went unchallenged. I'm trying to round out the evening in a way that make sense to me. I don't want to spend it hunched over a keyboard, or listening to music, or playing a video game, not reading Japanese.

I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with dill pickles and a glass of milk. Judge away. It's my favorite end-of-day snack.

If I had a heroic fibre of fucking resolve in my soul I would turn the music off, turn the TV off, turn this laptop off and clean the house. Maybe make a healthy meal.

You know what? This is all I can stand. I'm turning this crap off. I can't relapse into depression or relaxation when I haven't earned it. Forget that this sad disgusting page was even typed out. Time to do right.

-SIN