to be cont

Last time the lights went out I was underground.

I had been working in this mine for close to 45 years. I lost count 45 days ago. I'm not over 30 years old I don't think. My mind doesn't concieve of time anymore since I was placed here and set to work interminably long hours for nothing more than the company of my fellow denizens of inaneity.

I woke up a few minutes later. This dream had been recurring in my sleep for many years and months now and I don't know why. I always saw a Monarch butterfly in the mine, that was then stabbed to death by one of the perceived authority figures. That I have no power to stop, or even yell or curse at.

I shook the sleep out of my eyes, hair, and mind. I woke up fully as I rose to my feet and the familiar smell of a Indian kitchen filled my nostrils so intensely that I don't have to shave the little fuckers called nose hairs that used to keep me company.

I used to love Indian food, goddamnit.

Now I think I'd puke if I tried to even get it anywhere close to entering my mouth and going down my esophagus to my stomach. Just the description entering my mind and I nearly ran for the toilet. Five minutes later I did. That always used to concern me because of my prior cancer diagnosis. One of the few men who suffered from the conviction of breast cancer in the 4th degree.

Here the fuck I am though, I thought. I wiped the drivel of neon green puke from my mouth.

Stomach bile this morning. My one vice remaining, I hope, was something that discouraged a healthy eating habit among other things. Thank god for steroids and testosterone, times a healthy dose of vain courage and mirror obsession. Propelled me and my steadily dying carcass into the doors of gyms and underneath barbells. It kept me away from the abyss like edge that I teetered on the precipice of and knew I would never survive.

Sweaty, previously ass-sat and ball-sat weight benches that I tried not to think about in my best efforts to get in and out, of a crowded space. Agoraphobia associated with the shit that kept me up at night won against my aversion to ass sweat. Every. Day. Of. The. Week.

My refusal to look like a bag of dicks tempered the blade of neuroses to the point all was well with the mirror image I so obsessively attempted to maintain. Life's all about balance.. right?

Determined not to look like a bag of dicks. Even if I was, indeed, a bag of dicks. Only you and I and god know that.

It reflected very eloquently my current state of affairs that it was literally the fucking only thing that made me get up in the morning. To know that looking in the mirror I'd see the muscular physique that I sought my whole life, and now will fight my whole life to maintain. Life long journey's that I found motivation for are few and well.. let's just fucking say few you assholes.

A familiar voice yelled up the stairs at me unintelligibly. It was the Indian family downstairs. They made me exit my apartment everyday at 0900 sharp because they are the fucking antichrist themselves and hate white round eyed Caucasians. I thought as I seethed in anger and unreleased rage. I gritted my teeth and yelled back at them in slurred english so they couldn't understand me telling them to go fuck their mothers and die. Then I wandered down the stairs. Plopping each foot onto the squeaky shit hole of a foundation this whole house was based upon. It hadn't been maintained in years because apparently whatever shit hole in India these cocksuckers had come from didn't believe in basic building code.

At 365$ a month for a one bedroom, I felt kind of silly complaining. The fatass patriarch who walked around like a rooster through the kitchen I had to walk through to leave my apartment "ALEXANDER - TIME TO GO TO LIBRARY OR FUCKING BLOODY WORK OR WHATEVER YOU BLOODY FUCKING DO"... I didn't feel silly complaining anymore.

At least he served a purpose in my own personal spite fantasy and bitching as well as moaning.

This dude was going to get reincarnated as a cockroach in a career pest controlman's home... Sucks to be an asshole AND a Hindu.

Fantasies had entered my head before of a violent physical confrontation upon the next verbal confrontation they lashed out of their empty heads traveling oh so abruptly to their mouths that it spewed equal parts saliva and shit breath if you weren't quick to dodge it.. but I knew better than to risk my life, limb and freedom for another's unworthiness of sharing the same air I breathed. I did that once and nothing very good came of it.

Okay, I did it many times. You got me. Assholes.

As I finally made my way to the door to the kitchen it swung open with a slam against the door jam opposite wall from me. My favorite individual was there to greet me with a look of disdainful disgusting grimace on his fat, pudgy and very oddly hairy face.

Unibrow thick, hair greasey as a mechanics hands with poor hygiene. He spit as he spoke and I wasn't very quick on the draw this time, so I got a nice spattering of his bodily fluid -- emitic style -- from his dick sucker.

Relaying any form of this conversation I believe would seriously put your neurologic function at risk due to it's intense stupidity. So I will refrain. Suffice to say that I extricated myself from his verbal hostage taking clutches and exited out the back as I do every day.