Monday Hate Streak
Another Monday. Took Tylenol III the night before for back pain. Woke up at three, teeth grinding, staring at the ceiling. I turned on the radio. When my daughter isn't here I need the noise because there are no sleep sounds coming from the other room. A car goes by. Hip-hop blares from its speakers. I imagine it's the standard white guy behind the wheel. The same guy who would be locking his doors if he saw a black guy on the corner right now.
Four something. Still can't sleep. Mind is racing. It's Monday. Back to Hell. My daughter isn't here. I miss her. I miss my mind. I miss her more. I feel lucky to have her in my life. I hate that it's only part time. Can't comprehend those parents who dash out on their kids. It makes no sense to me. The Rolling Stones come on. "Sympathy for the Devil." Yeah, that's got to be good. I like the early Stones. So much better than what the band became, which was a joke. I suppose that's how most of us end up anyway. A bad joke just kicking on, unaware of how useless we've become.
Five something. Might as well get up. I think of that woman who got drunk and high and ended up driving the wrong way on the highway. I'm glad she's dead. Fucking ecstatic. Wish the innocent kids weren't killed. Husband described her as perfect. I think he and I have very different definitions of perfect. Another example of why family is the worse thing to happen to children. This woman was a waste of a person. That she was so self-centered to put others in harm's way says much about her. She should've been taken sooner. I believe drugs should be legal. I also believe people need to be held responsible for their actions. I don't buy the "addiction is a disease" mantra. Cancer is a disease. My old stand-by lupus is a disease. You don't buy diseases from dealers or the corner store. Addiction is what the weak rely on to get through the day, and if you can't handle your addiction you deserve to be taken out before you can do damage to others. It rarely works out that way, though. Usually they have to take others down. A failed life that ends up destroying other hopeful lives. Her husband calls her perfect. I say she's a dead fuck-up who was apparently too dumb to know better. Hope you believe in Hell, waste girl.
I get up. Put on Faith No More. Hope it's uplifting. It's not. Decide not to shave. No need to. Who am I trying to impress? The shower isn't good. It hurts to stand up. Once again I can understand Dr. Thompson's suicide. I rarely use painkillers. Want to feel the pain sometimes. Let's me know I'm alive. This is not one of those days. I have a job to do ... no matter how useless it is. Feed the masses, boy-o.
I turn the shower, which I have set at massage (not for the same reason the ladies do), off and step out. Wrap a towel around me. Hear sirens. They stop across the street. It's a fire truck. Brilliant yellow. I think that I once heard that most heart attacks happen on Monday morning. Wonder if that will be my fate. I hope that if so, it happens when my girl isn't here. I don't want her to wake up to a dead father. That shit scars. I found a corpse once. Wasn't expecting it. I hated the guy. Wanted to kill him the week before. Was glad he was dead. He, too, was a waste. It still freaked me out, though.
I picture me waking up with my chest tight. I reach for the phone. Arm goes numb. I drop it. Reach for the cell. Thumb, which is shaking way too much, pushes the button. I wait for it to go on. For some reason my room goes darker. It sounds like I'm in a tunnel. Must be okay now because I'm going back asleep.
Yeah, that's what I see.
I watch the firefighters exit the truck to go into the house. I turn away from the window. I gotta get dressed and feed those masses, boy-o. I gotta function. I gotta turn this anger into an energy.
I drink coffee for breakfast. It's bitter. I don't add sugar and milk. I don't have a vagina. Don't need that shit. I like the strength. Used to hate coffee. Warm liquids weren't my thing. Still aren't. It makes me feel better than soda, though.
Check e-mail. Send out my reviews. Call my women. Look in the mirror. My smile is a mask. That's from an old punk song. I want to punch what I see because I don't like it. If my girl was here we would be watching television and laughing our asses off. She has the best laugh. Comes from the gut. Honest. True.
The fire truck is gone now. Don't know what happened. Not my business. The clock ticks away. Every second I get closer to disaster. I put a shirt over my Profane Existence shirt. Can't have that at work. Or can I? People wear shorts and flip flops because this is Humboldt. We're laid back.
So glad I don't own a hand gun.
I don't hate Mondays. I fear them.