The Price Tag

042511

  After I hear Aaron leave I open my eyes to the empty apartment. I lie in bed for another ten minutes, making sure he isn’t going to return having forgotten something and – seeing I’m awake – give me a chore to do or an errand to run. My flatmate sees me as a casualty of my own unemployment. I spend the time idly wondering how a bed so comfortable can allow such bad dreams to be conjured. I don’t like dwell on the darkness of my nightmares, but this was a particularly horrific adventure into my psyche. I’m sure Freud would have something to say about it.  Something about intercourse with a family member, no doubt.

  I get up and choose to wash my face in the kitchen sink rather than draw a bath. I feel fresh enough to face the day, despite having woken in a cold sweat. I was up twenty minutes before my flatmate’s alarm went off. I had plenty of time to dry off. I turn the radio on to some tune from the nineties I vaguely remember, bits and pieces of the lyrics coming back to me and out of me in spurts as I make some coffee and slide some bread into the toaster. As I wait for the climax of the brew and burn respectively I eye my messenger bag. It’s full of résumés for when I’m ready to tackle the street. Selling myself was never my strong suit. Even without the moral debauchery I could never be a whore.

  I eat my toast unbuttered, drink my coffee straight, and read yesterdays paper. It doesn’t have a lot to say. Pretty people are dead, airbrushed people are scandalized, ugly people are up to their ugly necks in political drama, foreign bodycounts barely make the page twelve column and everything leads back to a www-dot-com. We distance ourselves so nothing can touch us. Just another day in our perfect little world. I look to my messenger bag and scowl. I can see the appeal in being a recluse.

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~ by Joseph Blame on April 25, 2011.

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