the markerboard on the fridge read:
sleep tonight.

the only thing i promised myself i'd do.
the day went something like this:

i woke up thirty minutes late,
i made do with only washing my hair,
ate an apple, yogurt, drank a cup,
****** myself to clear my head,
ignored the neighbor as i stepped out the door.

went to a dead-end, data-entry job,
where the girls aren't pretty, nobody is funny,
because everybody is a CPA and i'm not pleasant because i
don't give a good ******* about the
world of finance.

the highlight of the workday (as it is everyday),
was the break room chatter during lunch.

the earth-shattering conversations
revolved around:
how good the nutrisystem desserts taste,
how there was low voter-turnout in the midterm,
and how that one girl is a lesbian.

i got off work,
ate a sandwich, a banana,
put on sweatpants and a thrift store t-shirt.
i wrapped some fitness contraption around
my belly, whose sole purpose is to make
my abdomen sweat profusely.

no pretty girls at the fitness center.

i got back to my apartment.
wrote some phony poetry full
of half-baked sentiment
for no worthwhile reason.

i smoked.
i watched a foreign film, but couldn't find my glasses.
meaning: i have no ******* clue what the plot was about.

i went to the gas station.
made small talk with the long haired indian man.
i bought two smirnoff 40s.
something about smirnoff gives me really cohesive dreams.

my roommate tried to give me a lecture.
i told him christ was a myth.
a simple summation of earlier religious figures.
slammed the door,
lit some incense called "*****".

i fell asleep, woke up an hour later in a fright.
turned on the fan,
lit some more "*****",
closed my eyes,
and dreamt a complex novel,
containing:
me missing church,
my mom calling me,
getting lost in canada,
finding my way back to
my hometown only to find
two dudes with heavy machine guns
killing everyone in the cozy, local shops,
then somehow i got a line in a movie
directed by none other than keanu reeves.

at least i finally got some sleep.