Deliriously tired and stoned. Okay, I get the value of free time now. The treasure of resting. Reclining, relaxing, and sleeping. I fantasize about a deep, restorative sleep that wipes away the stains of segmented working time. A life without clocks and jobs, industry and growth.
No mechanistic movement, no drilled in focus boring my brain. Not repeating tasks while standing, then moving to a different spot and standing there. Repeating a few more tasks and then moving back to the first spot again. Standing in the original spot and repeating the same basic tasks again and again. People standing in line staring at you, the enigma of their desires radiating white hot and blinding.
Do they want me to move faster, are they impatient, am I attractive or disgusting, are they interested or bored, are they present and collecting glimmering, ephemeral details for the evocative poems they will write later to post on anonymous blogs?
How long do we make people do this?
It’s been 14 minutes so far but it feels like the life cycle of a star. Migratory species have traveled thousands of miles across the earth, returning to their ancestral breeding grounds for a once in a lifetime fuckfest. Inbred dynasties of mutant fish people have peaked and declined in the lived, felt time of your life as you hand out 4000 daily muffins and squirt scalding liquid into paper cups and ceramic mugs. 14 real minutes have passed. If there’s a hell they tell time there. Knowing where you are in time is torture.
It’s been 17 minutes since the fire beatles started gnawing on your nutsack. You’ve got another six hours of that. Followed by a three day long swim in a river of satan’s diarrhea.
Seconds slip, minutes tick, hours drag, and days die. Time is nothing subtracting itself. When you watch sci fi movies and there’s always a scene where someone on a spaceship accidentally breaks a window or an escape hatch opens, and it creates this sucking power, a gravitational pull. And people cling desperately to whatever is solid enough to resist the consuming void.
That’s what being in time is like. Always on the edge of getting sucked out of the ship, dick first into eternal nothingness.
To forget about the earth vomiting us into the void, we work. So I get it. I like to work because it makes me feel useful, and feeling useful is another good strategy for suppressing dread over annihilating time.
But I also like to think and write and sleep. And be with friends and loved ones. For the past three days I’ve been trying to write about new netflix comedy specials I’ve watched. I end up scrapping everything because I feel dumb for taking comedy that seriously. This is a critical piece on comedy as an expression of the zeitgeist. We don’t just turn to comedians for laughs, but also for insight and perspective. Let me tell you what this means.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m way too tired for this.
Hungover. From a single glass of wine. Slept five hours even though I didn’t have to wake up. My body has adjusted to sleep deprivation and is ready to run without rest. But everything feels off. I can function but there has to be an underlying, creeping illness or condition waiting to destroy me.
Why is my left hand tingling. Am I having a heart attack or do I have diabetes. I pee frequently. Is that diabetes or a malfunctioning bladder? A swollen prostate or just drinking coffee all day long. Chicken broth piss bubbling in the toilet bowl 19 times a day. Wait, is foamy urine a sign of kidney failure or just the reaction of a high velocity stream hitting a still surface of water from a distance?
It has to be too much caffeine, not enough sleep and bad diet. High stress and low fulfillment. Or kidney failure, heart disease, and rectal cancer. How do I still have a headache from a single glass of wine that didn’t get me drunk. How am I paying for something I didn’t enjoy?
It’s Sunday morning and my room is freezing. I’m shaky and my eyes feels strained, trying to smoke my headache away. It helps but I still feel like a broken down idiot. One glass of wine last night and I’m sitting in my darkened room shivering under the blankets like I’m withdrawing from heroin. 30 years old and major, systemic organ failure on the horizon.
Remember it’s the lifestyle, the heartrending stress and anxiety. Keep up hope, you can change all of this.