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I wake up and look at the clock as I always do. 9:14, the number burned into my retinas due to the contrast between the thick blanket of darkness that seemed to cover the adjacent wall. I tacked three black sheets over my window so I didn't have to wake up to a blinding shower of sunlight, which is always a problem when you live on the 14th floor of a shabby apartment building in downtown Seattle. I live here for the rain, nothing more, nothing less.
The strength to get ready found me a few minutes later. I get up from my bed and head for the bathroom. A bunch of shit is cluttered everywhere, most notably the shower since I live with three roommates, all of them being guys. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pop a synthroid before I look in the mirror. I was born with an inactive thyroid, which really sucks because I need to take a tiny pink pill for the rest of my life and there is nothing that the miracles of modern medicine can do for me. It's amazing that they can make artificial hearts, but they can't give me an apparatus that gives me my daily dose of whatever my thyroid is supposed to supply by itself. I keep staring at myself in the mirror, analyzing my features, admiring how much of a piece of shit I am.
I am 22 (23 this December). I have a huge mop of dark brown hair that I hate with a passion, but I tolerate it since it compliments my huge face, my squinty eyes, and my pursed lips. I am an ugly motherfucker and everyone knows it, but I can make myself look semi-decent if I put a little effort into it.
I begin to scold my appearance in the mirror. "You fat faggot. Look at you. How can you live with yourself? How do you accept this day after day and you don't do shit about it? You know what girls look for in a guy, they don't just like a guy who cares about them anymore. Justin Bieber is a little queer, but he's got pre-teen girls all over him. I hate you, go kill yourself."
I verbally abuse myself, mostly to cope with the fact that everything I say is true, but also to make due with the fact that if I tell myself this in advance, if anyone does try to bring me down, they can't push me below the surface of the ocean of empathy I supply myself with every morning; I become invincible, one of the only powers I have.
And then Gandalf walked in with his pompous majesty. "Get out of here, you piece of shit. I need to piss." He dons a soiled white wifebeater and a pair of Husky sweatpants. Gandalf is a huge UW fan and he never misses a game and if the Huskies lose, he throws the biggest fit you can imagine. His rage manifests itself in a hurricane of thrashing, swearing, and, ultimately, self mutilation.
I get out of the bathroom because, you know, I'm a piece of shit.
Pg. 2
My stomach growled with hunger. I rarely ate breakfast because we usually didn't have enough cereal, mostly due to the fact that a good sum of my money is spent on liquor and music. I may be only 22, but I've become a fervent alcohol connoisseur. I was by no means a drunk, but I loved alcohol, especially Crown Royal. I kept all my Crown Royal bags in a drawer in my closet, using four of them for coins (I always give my pennies and nickels to the homeless). I make it a point to never match purchases with change because I admire the feeling of having a large amount of coins. I never figured out why. I stumbled my way towards the kitchen. Gandalf did the liberty of leaving his mess strewn about the kitchen counter.
"Jesus christ, what the fuck?" I muttered under my breath. He was never good at cleaning up after himself, but, as I was concerned about the overall image of the apartment, I cleaned it up without resentment. I always thought it best not to complain since I've experienced firsthand the consequences of complaining. It was one of the key factors in my parents' divorce. Their marriage had gotten to the point where the only thing they could talk about were eachother's faults.
I poured a mug of coffee and threw some bread in the toaster. I figured I'd clean the mess later, the morning was too young. I walked over to the TV and flipped through the channels until I reached Comedy Central. Some black guy was doing a stand up routine, so I watched it. I have always liked black comedy, it felt really authentic. I don't care for black music at all though, the only exceptions being good R&B and a couple minutes of jazz.
Gandalf came walking down the hall at the same time Samwise came walking out of his room. Samwise was a good, honest guy. He always made a point to treat others with respect, even if they didn't return the favor. He was very humble and brought a warm air with him wherever he went. Gandalf saw Sam coming out of his room and blocked him.
"You shall not pass", Gandalf said. He would always do this shit when he was in a bad mood. Sam looked up at him with an obvious look of defeat. "Come on, Gandalf, not right now", he pleaded. Gandalf stooped down to Sam's eye level. Gandalf was easily 6' 5" while Sam couldn't have been four feet tall if he dreamed. "How about no?"
"Gandalf, just let him go", I called down the hallway. Sam deserved much better treatment than Gandalf gave him. Gandalf looked at me, realized his fault, and let Sam slip by into the living room. The thing was that the Huskies lost the other night, a key match that would've surely catapulted them to a cup game, and Gandalf always had a bitter mood after an ill-fated Huskies game. He was a very nice guy when UW was on a winning streak and I've tried talking to him about his emotional dependence on the team, but he always changed the subject.
"Thanks, Azriel", Sam said as he took a seat next to me on the couch.
Edited by Azriel, 02 January 2011 - 08:16 AM.
