I'm too tired to listen to this bubblegum pop music. The energy snaps and crackles in my head, makes me feel like vomiting up any joy I swallowed at the start of the sunny day. Cute bunnies, bright daisies, delicate dollhouses, beach balls + cotton candy: I want to kill them all, destroy them, and wallow in my deep dark soul.
How much money does it take to maintain just one traffic light every year? Who makes traffic lights? Are they the same people who make stop signs? How does anyone come up with the idea that they want to save lives for a living, making signs, lights, blinkers, telling people where and how to go?
This morning I watched two pigeons build a nest in the awning of the cafe. The problem with doing something once is that you become lazy afterwards. Cherry blossoms aren't good enough for the blackening sky. It feels like everyone's traveling in a tunnel, they move so straight. Other birds are motionless, shit the day away. Man exits cafe with open paper bag, confident about what he thinks is his.
Just in case you might not gather that it was a mug meant for coffee, the word "coffee" was painted all over it--in big letters, messy letters, uptight letters, black, red, yellow and orange--with tufts of steam floating among words. Dennis despised how the mug's designer assumed the stupidity of the consumer. He pushed his mug off to the side of the table in disgust. The coffee slopped over onto the table and floor. He didn't want coffee anymore. Instead, he wanted tea, Lipton, in a bag, in the coffee mug. Resist and subvert.
The sudden exit of endorphins left me feeling like a vengeful slab of lead, ready to be used to kill with an inertia all my own. I don't want to move; I don't want to sit still. My mouth being pulled down into a monster yawn. And now the sun pierces my limbo, shooting into the solar panels on my heavy head.