Six forty four and fifty seven seconds.
The amount I have had is enough.
Six forty five. I am awake 3 seconds before I hear my phone vibrating next to my head. Reaching over to find my phone without lifting my head from a mildly comfortable pillow is futile. The night before when laying down to go sleep I purposely placed this device far enough away as to force myself to have to actually move to get it to stop its annoying vibrating. Rarely is the time when I allow the vibration to lapse into full on alarm. Those shitfuck horrible sounds meant to arouse without the misery that is associated with the typical clock radio alarm din.They fail, and flail, and ding and ring and fuck that noise.
The amount I have had is enoug.
Exit the bed. Now. Not five minutes from now. NOW. Shower quickly, just enough to wet the thick hair adorning my head. I need it tamed and combed. Teeth scrubbed, hair trigger gag reflex tested, it is still there and a I still gag. I dry off as best I can. I take my nexium, modern wonder drug that keeps my body from digesting itself from the esophagus out. Washed down with water left over from last nights bedside glass, ignoring that reflective rainbow film across the top and just knocking it back. Deodorant, marketed towards someone in search of a smell that will attract females by the herd, women ready to mate based on olfactory alone. This is not my grandfather's old spice.
The time is seven ten.
The amount I have had, is enough.
Seven eleven and I'm searching for clean underwear, they are blue and relativley new so they still fit fairly well. Pants are next, shitfuck cheap dress slacks provided by THEM. Three damned buttons. THREE FUCKING BUTTONS, and a zipper. Cool white, or what used to be white, tee shirt. The chill from the cotton on my chest causes my nipples to tighten, its not an altogether unpleasant feeling. I have always enjoyed slipping into fresh clothes after a shower. Clean smooth skin against clean smooth cotton and nylon and denim and khaki and these shitfuck cheap dress slacks even. Socks, I nearly forgot about socks. I bend over fumbling through the drawer. I have had enough, but I want good socks today. New socks have so much more cushion and elasticity and support. There are no fucking new socks this morning. Old socks, worn at the heals to near opacity. Socks with holes in the toes, elastic torn, shitfuck socks that fall down around your ankle in those obnxious bunches. A lifeless pair of socks chosen and applied, no pleasure found in putting them on. I do not wish to talk about the socks.
Seven thirteen.
The amount I have had is very nearly too much.
I have been awake barely half of an hour. I turn towards the closet. Hanging like straight jackets ready to wrangle the lunatic into submission. So many asylum orderlies standing about face looking into a blank wall of the closet, ready to stifle my wild urges. White, collared, buttons from bottom to top, each button a nail in the coffin of that man of epic worthlessness. So many of these shirts. A shirt for each day, a bullet for each head. I grab the first and swing it on and around me. My fingers working each button while inside I hear nails scraping, dragging across the floor of my mind. I removed the shirt from the closet and on its hanger I placed my soul.
Seven thirteen and thirty seconds.
The amount I have had.
The amount I have had is, is too much.
Shirt tucked in, belt laced and buckled. Truck started, traffic cut off, hard on the gas and the engine rages as the rear tires spin. RED FUCKING LIGHT. There is a red shitfuck of a light ahead of me. The truck stops. I can feel my belt buckle digging into my stomach. The light is eternally RED. Some idiot behind me beleives that the closer they get to my rear bumper the faster the light will turn green. This theory is a foolish one. RED. Noone at the intersection is moving. Green finally, out of the corner of my eye. Just the corner because I am staring intently at the forehead of the person behind me in my rear view mirror. I imagine them in a straight jacket, bouncing off of cushioned walls. They cackle about how traffic lights react to impatient drivers as they try to bite thier own ear and slam into the padded door. HORN. I hear the horn and see the maniacal gaze being returned to me in my rear view mirror. I make the right turn and I can see the place I work.
Seven twenty nine.
Somehow the truck is parked. Somehow I am inside the building staring at a computer monitor that I claim is mine. I am certain that the Monitor also claims me the same way. I wonder privately who is correct. I have no definitive answer. I have clocked in. Announced to the workplace that I AM HERE.
Seven thirty.
Too much.
I begin to shake. Not a chill, or a shiver. I can not keep my fingers on the appropriate keys. Typing jibberish instead of commands and customer complaints. The first smiling face arrives, they forgot the smile. The face asks for the world. I promise the world. I know I can only deliver a pebble, a small part of the world, it will not be enough.
Seven forty.
The amount I have had is more than I can continue to endure. I am done.
I rise from my seat, it rolls backwards into the counter top behind me. The drawer which holds my truck keys and wallet is ripped open. Keys and wallet removed and deposited into my pocket. Left ajar, the drawer is a glimpse into my day, adrift amongst the pens are nickels and straws and pennies and pistachios and a fiber bar. The concrete jungle warrior's survival kit, cellular phone charging cable included. I pull up on the straight jacket yanking the tails out of my waistband of these shitfuck dress pants. The first door swings open with a smack of my palm and slams against the wall as it swings all the way around. I wish the glass had broken, I wish the wall had fallen. The top button of the straight jacket is undone and the second is on its way. Dead stop. A pause. Perhaps for dramatic effect as I decide to say fuck it and go full superman on my straight jacket. Pop pop pop pop pop the buttons fly. Walking, slowly, with confidence I have not had since my high school wrestling days. The straight jacket flung open and the tails swinging in the breeze. I roll my shoulders back and flip the collar off my neck. The straight jacket falls off my right arm and my left hand balls up the white stranglehold.
Seven forty one.
The straight jacket, white with starched and formed collar and pearlescent buttons, lays upon the dark black paved parking lot of the asylum. A gentle breeze blows across the lot and the straight jackets moves ever so lightly. Tiny bits of gravel and sand bounce onto and off of the sleeves. A roaring noise is growing and with it there is a shrill squealing sound. The breeze blows and the sound grows, not high pitched but shrill nonetheless. The front tire of the truck rolls quickly over the shirt, the tread pattern outlined in gravel dust and parking lot dirt. Rear tire now, spinning faster than the truck is driving, smoke rolling off the rubber as it melts from the heat. The shirt is flung backwards, torn and ripped and ruined.
Seven forty two.
The amount I have had is ever increasing.
I am at my desk and my eyes blink back open. The computer monitor that I claim as mine, and that in turn claims me as its own stares back.
Seven forty three.
Seven forty four.
Seven forty five.......