Nothing was really special about that day, not in particular. I woke up earlier than expected, alone in bed with the tiny mews of kittens to welcome me into the day. The room was dark, beside a small sun lamp meant for half dead cacti. I got dressed for work, which wasn't for another three hours. I grabbed a coffee from the place across the street from my apartment. The morning went on slow like the smoke rising in the room's stale air. My roommates are either asleep or gone. That, or locked away in their personal space. I came to realize that morning that I no longer had any of my own.
The hour of my arrival at work was fast approaching. I gathered my things, hastily simply because I was always the best at procrastinating and running out the door with my one arm through a jacket, things clambering about in my pockets, hands and bag. Luckily I was allowed such privileges because I worked a half a block from where I lived at a small shop on a mostly busy bar street in the city I grew up. It was never a place I enjoyed much, even in my drunken youth. No, it was simply another infested crack in this town's old wood. Termites all hungrily eating away at what is left of a strange and terrible history. It's a form of escapism, hunger; but also one of the most heinous of sins. This whole world has been consumed by it. Hell, half of us consummated with glee and great unruly anticipation, like little children eyeing lollipops in the hands of the Devil himself. I work for a company, it's owned by someone who makes all the money off of the things I sell that they originally bought at a lower, more reasonable price. It is then escalated to ridiculous amounts through inflation and sold to the dumber, more gullible of the population and that percent that we reach out toward with greedy fingers is my own generation. I know this as I clock in and begin my eight hours of windex dust and glass gleams, shining and polishing, displaying with painted nails and a painted face. Retail is easy if you're a woman. It will always be that way. We are allowed some mysterious allure that makes grown men fall from their top wit to their slowest tongue. Some of us play with this powers. Others simply observe it's presence in their life. But there are very few who acknowledge it and choose to do nothing with it, most of those women pursue stagnant relationships that remind them of how boring life can really be alone or with someone. Women who have either scorned or been done with what they are made out to be, done using it at all. Many of my friends have categorized me as one of those women. I feel they are sadly mistaken.
I can literally get paid to sit on a concrete stoop all day at this job, if it's slow enough. Unluckily it is a night where the bars are bursting like the water molecules in the summer heat. I am alone on my shift, the stores door wide open like a diamond on a typical silver ring, so sparkly that everyone must stop and see. I am smoking a cigarette outside and the light of the sun is wavering from the purple night. I enjoy this every midday shift. I enjoy this from the south and from the north almost every day of the week. Although my store is a bright display on the now darkened street, no person stops in besides the occasional regular. The people walk by drunk, smiling and laughing, holding, touching, speaking. Enjoying each other, or at least pretending to. A vision of a person from a dream walks past me, a mousier looking fellow beside him on the crowded street. My heart flushes and internally I rate him off my stereotypical chart I made specifically based on my understanding of the world around me, not some petty magazine on the stand. He scores a decent number and I chuckle sarcastically to myself about how lucky that guy must be to be him. Attractive even when quickly making his way down the street with a friend, dressed in clothes that only said the word 'bartender'. I should've guessed for the half a second glance we gave each other before the connection was cut off that the cigarette in my hand meant conversation.
I am in love with life but I am also unconcerned by it. I've left myself indifferent because everyone else is indifferent to me. No one is worth the pain for the slight touch of glory you feel when in someone's warm visual embrace, so I just ignore it with frosted eyes that are iced over with impertinence. No one can touch me when I do this. No one can touch what exists inside the flesh they see before them. The spirit is willing and the body is weak. The body is a tool to advance oneself upon others in an intellectual and instinctual manner. We are all just here to appease each other's appetites. We are the living embodiment of gluttony, massive and autonomous. I drag my cigarette and suddenly the person from before is asking for one and of course, he and his friend can both have one. They stop to talk. The conversation is being drowned with street noises, piercing intensity. There's smiling, and laughter. We are feeding one another. We are enjoying one another's time and then the cigarettes are done and I have glass to polish.
My life has always been uninteresting to me, although, when I tell other people about my experiences they seem entertained by them. I assume it's because I've nullified most interactions in my life to stay alive that I now find most things of no real interest. My brain is a computer that is constantly on stand by mode. I am just here to feed you all. Such mentalities are said to be certainly harmful to oneself and perhaps others surrounding them. For me, it comes in waves. I am off, a happy unconcerned girl in her twenties working and being as nice as pie with a side of ice cream. When I am on, it is a hurricane that wants to drowned everything in it's path. I eventually came to the understanding I got to choose weather my brain was on or off and chose to keep it off. Then it turned into something else. It turned into someone else.
(Oh snap is she really gonna start writing a real story? HOMG no wai~. Excerp ya face fool)
