He's sipping coffee in his white mug that has, "merry christmas" written on it, when it is not even Thanksgiving yet. This really pisses him off. The littlest things piss him off now a days. He feels like this job is never going to end and he'll always be working for a weekend that doesn't exist; for a break that was never there.

The office walls become blurred after he takes his medication. He lies and tells the doctor that he's depressed but the thing is, he's just bored. He wants to take the meds to add some spunk to his life but all they do is make everything blurred. The first few weeks that he took them, he enjoyed them and felt lighter inside. Now that it's been 3 years, he feels like the blurriness is apart of his life and when things are normal, he thinks he's sick and that he's going crazy.

He spins around and takes a look at Margaret who has cherry red lipstick smeared on the left side of her mouth. She looks like she made out with an old man who wanted to have some excitement in his life. She's a nice lady but she annoys the shit out of him. She talks of her problems like if they're stories about what she ate for dinner last night. She goes into full detail and doesn't stop until she makes sure you know exactly what she felt deep inside and the emotional outburst that she wants from you. He usually just acts like he understands but he really doesnt. He knows that this is the only part of his day that will get some sort of a twist. The stories are never the same so he enjoys them. He hates the way she needs the emotion though. She winces when she sees someone taken back by what a huge deal she made about her story. She acts like she agrees with them and slowly slugs her way into the restroom and cries to herself. He knows this because she comes out with red eyes that are still filled with tears. She sniffles to herself when she's back at her desk.

He goes back to look at his desk. There is nothing there to make it look like he's ever been alive. He has no family pictures. No picture of his dog. No calender or agenda to show how busy he is. He only has big folders filled with unnecessary words and a computer that won't work for shit. He opens up the word processor and starts his story...


"Why don't I give a fuck about anyone? Yesterday my sister called telling me that I was going to be an uncle and the first thing I felt was annoyed. Why do I care? Is it my baby? Will I even see the baby on any other occasions except for birthdays and holidays? No. So don't tell me that I'm going to be an uncle like I have some sort of fuck left for a moment like this.

Anyways, yesterday I woke up with my door pulled off the hinges. I think I'm addicted to my meds and the way they make my life appear. I'm being very literal. I like the way that my life is blurred when I am on them. My sight changes because I know that my body doesn't need any of this happy pill bullshit. I keep telling my doctor that my roommate is stealing my meds so that I need a new prescription for all of them. I have doubled up on them so that I can take more quicker. Next week I'll need to come up with a better excuse on why I need a new prescription. I'll tell them that my mom died or some shit like that. Whatever gets me the damn pills. I sort of feel like I should be put into a mental hospital now a days. I'm becoming a sociopath. Or I more or less dont give a shit about people and what theyre about and what happens to them. I wouldn't kill anyone. I don't have time to waste like that. But I'm at the point where I'm pretty sure that if I saw someone dieing, I'd throw my cigarette at them and tell them to have a good last smoke. Who am I?


Tomorrow I may enter myself into a mental hospital because I can't stand anymore of Margaret's stories. They make me want to take the lipstick that she puts on so horribly, and stick it in her eye. Her crying pisses me off and sometimes I want to yell, "SHUT THE FUCK UP" when i hear her sobbing. I don't care if she's lonely or her husband is cheating on her with some hot white chic with an ass at the bar that i saw yesterday..."

he took out the usb card that he had in his coat pocket that he usually takes his work in, and puts his document in there to finish at home. Today he is deleting every microsoft excell list that he's ever made and all of the ones that are due by the end of the week. He's made his decision, he's going to the mental hospital and he's going to enjoy his stay there like a real fucking lunatic would.

He gets in the elevator and watches as his boss looks at him strangely because he is leaving three hours earlier than his job allows him to. In his head all he thinks is "yeah that's right fucker, i AM leaving 3 hours early and if youre going to fire me, you'd only make my day better." He walks into the deep cold and takes off his jacket like if it were 75 degrees in the summer. Everyone walks by him with the most curious looks on their faces and he yells, "yes i am fucking walking home in a fucking shirt and a shirt only." He gets home and turns on the computer. He needs to call the suicide hotline to see what idiot is working for them today and how they'll help him deal with the loss of his pet fish who he plans to kill himself over...


"I'm home and I'm on the phone. This fucking idiot thinks I'm going to kill myself over a nonexistent pet fish that i "felt" was the most important thing in my life right now because no one gives a shit about me. So many people give a shit about me that I don't really care if I'm cared about anymore. If I killed myself it would be because I'm too fucking good for this world and not because I'm 'lonely'. Let's all just take a fucking smoke and relax and not give a fuck.

The guy on the phone is telling me that later on in life I will have a beautiful house and wife with some children to take care of. I'm screaming my head off because I say that no girl ever looks at me and I'm a huge loser with a big dick but no one would know because no one has ever tried to look. I can hear him try not to laugh. This guy must be new. I like him already. Yeah I even screamed the word dick. I want to tell him, "bro im just fucking with you, have a good day." but then I get tired and hang up anyway.

I just searched for the yellow pages hoping that they'll have a section on mental hospitals with a 1800 number and with a slogan that has something like "when you'll leave, you'll feel like it was a vacation from life..." But all I can find is dentist offices for children and someone to clean out my fucking pipes. I call the suicide hotline and the same guy answers. I ask him if he has a number to one of those mental hospitals that is cheap and will take care of me like if i were in vegas at the trump hotel. He tells me that he has a number and that I should call right away. I do call and I tell them how I think I'm on the verge of hurting everyone who is around me and how depressed I am that I want to go screaming down the streets naked because I think that that will get everyones attention and I will feel loved again. They admit me and I tell them I'll be over in five minutes. It's 2 hours from my apartment. When I get there I'll be the fucking king and I'll make sure that I make my stay last..."