Waste of Life Won’t Motivate

The morning glows drowsy sunrays through the blinds. There is the smell of coffee. The living-room is clean and the couch is stain-free, and I am lying on the carpeting. There is something important I need to do today. I need to get a drivers’ license, I need to put food in the refrigerator, I need to pay electric and cable and gas and water and health insurance. I need to study for school. I need to find someone to interview for my blog. I need to write something fictional, for once, finally in the past month I need to devise a novel. I need to engage the world. I need to meet my neighbors. I can do anything I want to in life and my feet can cross the globe. I can be interviewed on NPR and CNN, I can travel the continent for book-signings, I can start a movement. Have a house on Long Island, a seaside flat in Venice Beach. My gut is a viscous malaise. I am content, here on the carpeting.

I slept 10 hours last night. I think I have work today. I am going to masturbate, and then I’m going to eat two eggs, pancakes and bacon. I’ll read, after that, and fall asleep on the couch for a mid-morning nap. I might work later.

This little house smells like a hamster cage, and I am content.

I am disgusted.

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