Language of Leftovers

6pm and you’re still in your pajamas.   You haven’t left the house.

Its raining. It’s pouring. And you’re an old man who’s boring.

Depression comes in waves of indolent joy, like when you spray a can of whipped cream in your mouth and then instantly feel guilty afterwards.  Because you’re schmucky.  Which rhymes with lucky, so you start to feel better about the whole thing and sing it in your head: “Lucky Schmucky Schmo is me!”.

No one hears.  Your cat slants an ear in your direction and you think, “Well at least he gets it.  He gets why I’m lucky.”

Lucky because you have no job to worry about. 

Lucky because you get to eat junk food and lounge on the couch all day like a sack of lumps.  

Where did that job go.  

Can’t find it.

Where did that lover go.

Can’t find them.

You look around.  Netflix can’t fix this mess.

“Be happy,” people say.

As if anyone knows what the fuck that means anyway.  To be happy is to be an asshole.  How can you be happy in this world.  You must be completely blind, selfish and insane to be happy.  It makes more sense to be bummed out and to give up, slide down the mountain and let gravity take you where we are all going eventually anyway.

Let gravity decide.  

Your going to go out. Its dark out, but there is still time to feel something different.

You change into clothes.  You strap on ambition.  You kiss your cat goodbye and walk out into the cold.

Because you know what? Fuck gravity, fuck happiness, if you’re going to be really fucking bummed, at least you can do it well standing.  Well dressed.  Well present.

It’s cold outside.  It’s dark.  There are people, and every single one passing by is a threat of eye contact, interaction, conversation.  

Keep it low. Keep your eyes down, your jaw at a tough guy angle.  It’s the animals you came to see.  The birds, the raccoon, the rats, the feral cat speaking silently in a language you can understand. The language of leftovers.  


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