Roach Dinner

Came home to a cockroach on the wall beneath the stairs today. The fat, flying kind. You know one from the way it’s trying to adjust its TV reception on its head.

On the way home mama sent you a message, ‘There’s chicke in the fridge, your favorite’. You thought she was talking about a check or a bunch of money you thought you lost the day before, slip of the eye, (typos) but (you think) you spent it on cabs here and there and a massage. You politely asked the lady if they offer extra service. They didn’t. Massage wasn’t that good.

Anyhow the chicken was cold and wasn’t your favorite. Trying to make good with this dinner at 10 in the evening is ok, and there’s been a lot of these kinds of days lately- you told Wyn at the office earlier today – “Thursday again?” A week just flies. Then it’s the weekend, get drunk, try to have fun, and have peace on Sunday. The sound of it all speeding by is the plastic flutter of roach wings at 10 in the evening.

I wonder if it really goes like this, life. I wonder if I’m doing it right sometimes. If there’s anything, my manager looks like she’s got it figured out. Seems to be in tip-top shape physically and emotionally and has all her markers on one side of the table and her laptop is clean. She reminds me to do things (which is an indicator of a healthy, working mind) that kind of irks me a bit since I like to be left alone, but in your bathroom breaks you tell yourself “This is building your character”. I wonder what she does on the weekends, or if she really is happy, like the other officemates who are older and have families and all. I worry too much for a 22-year-old, some older people say, maybe you should get some sleep. I worry about doing it right. But maybe it isn’t about doing it right, maybe it’s just living it out and being human and all. I was never one for perfect marks and I don’t mind a bit of rough and tumble, so there goes my straight lines.

 

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