part three: little bundles of rage

I thought I had it the other day. Had it all squared away in little bundles of rage. Today they've been rearranged and suddenly don't seem so bad. Then again, it could just be the lighting. If I had to place money on the matter, I'd have to admit to blaming the chemicals in my head along with the person who seems to keep moving things around every time I blink. I suppose I could play with myself and forget the whole thing, but that requires effort.

Rules that make no sense, yet there they are. He says that 'it's just the way things are'... but if people like him ruled the world forever, then nothing would ever change. We'd all be living in houses that looked exactly the same... all dress the same... and that would be 'just the way things are'. My argument was always that he could rewrite his rules, maybe update them. There seems to be rules to control everything... maybe to cope with stress or to avoid dealing with the issue? Either way this control thing is turning him into someone I don't think he wants to be. Where are the rules to stop that?

So it fucking hurts. It hurts that I didn't think, it hurts that now I'm fucked for a few years. I'm tired of this lesson, and I've wasted enough time on it. Time flies by and I guess it's better then the blue-shirt cubicle hell I worked at for 5 years. Another five years of my life. I have to swallow myself and just let it fly by. There's gotta be a time when this is over. Numb. So numb.

The bulletin board isn't blank anymore. There is now the obligatory 'to do' list that is days old. If anyone took the time to read it all, they would find that task number six is 'kill everyone'. I'm almost done task 4 so I'm thinking I won't get to six for at least another week.

Painting has become a chore again. The ink fell on the carpet and I've had to drag furniture over it to pretend it never happened. They are crazy if they think I'm taking the furniture with me when I leave. I've had enough of it and besides, it hides that horrible ink stain some careless fuck made on the carpet. I should demand lower rent for that kind of shit.

5:30am swimming is enough to drive me to the very end of my sanity. I screamed for them to shut up after the tattooed freak jumped off the shed. I prayed for his spine to snap, for me to hear a scream of terror after the thud instead of the splash. I remembered I didn't believe in anything to pray to, so the moment was lost.
Fuck you they said.
No fuck you I said.

I'm avoiding them so they stare at me. I know they know I know.
We've played this game for days now.
I must now give in. I can't stand it any longer.
Those replicators on star trek are something that would save me a lot of time, energy and money. Instead of playing this psycho mind game with the dishes I could just shove them in my replicator and say 'recycle'. The dishes are gone and I don't have to spend more then two seconds on them. Damned star trek, flaunting what we don't have in front of our faces. They mock me. Damned replicators. Damned dishes.

The devil in me? What the fuck?
Anyways, I've never been better is what I tell myself. I'm dirt. Deceiving. Confusing. Transparency. Conclusion. Reality. Futility. Truer words have yet to be said. Just call me Harold. Do exactly as you're told. Harold has a nice new bankbook. Harold I say. Harold. Harold is getting on my nerves.

Days keep marching by. Why can't everyone just leave me alone? The phone is ringing, the fax machine is chirping, the email is being received and the snail mail has arrived. It's all the same message, just looks different at first. They are all laughing at me and I know it. Each letter and fax glaring at me with hatred, waiting for my death so it can all finally do what it really wants. Don't think I don't know.

The toast can just sit there and rot. It fell to the floor just to piss me off. We'll see how it likes not being eaten then. I can't do anything right. A blur of darkness in a world of pretend people. We sit and stare at each other pretending that we care about each other.
Hi. So, um, how are you?
Oh fine. Nice weather we're having isn't it?
I can't pretend like this anymore.
Yea I think it might rain. It's a good thing too, the grass needs it.
I hate you.
Sounds like it will clear up by the weekend though.
Shut the fuck up.

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