Posted: September 26, 2007 in The Roper Files

it starts here 

No sound of trees falling over here; just the sound of me pecking on the keypad. The television is on, but the sound is muted. As much as I love FAMILY GUY, I can’t be distracted. My train of thought must remain Of Purest Essence. 

Being an Internet blogger is a lonely life; I sit here and type and wonder if anybody’s reading this. I live in a fairly large city, and yet it is scary quiet right now. It’s 6pm, rush hour; the sound of squealing tires and roaring motors should be filling the air right now. I hear nothing.The phone is as silent as the TV. My neighbor next door is out of town. No car doors. No one knocking on the door. This is scary. If I died tonight, how long would it take for someone to notice? 

Someone could say: what are you complaining about? You should appreciate the quiet. Well, I don’t. I’m in a rare mood. I need some friendly interaction, but I’m clueless where to start. Everytime I come home from my menial job and look in the mailbox, there’s another reminder of why I get up and go to work every day when I never feel like it. The electric bill. The cable bill. The water bill. Numbing; relentless. It never stops. Same old shit, every day. Part of me says I should get out more, but I need to save what little cash I’ve got. I get a “paycheck” tomorrow, but it’s already spent. The only way I can make more cash is to go in and work Friday, but it’s been all I could muster to groan through the week so far. And I’m so dog-tired right now it’s not even funny. I need to go to the store; I need to go get something for dinner as well. But I don’t want to get out of this chair.

Walked into work this morning at 6am and after an hour of having headache-inducing metal-on-metal pounding noises tattooed into my brain, I was ready to walk out. Didn’t drink a thimble-full of alcohol last night, but I was feeling hungover regardless. Turned on one of my machines at 7am and a hose breaks, spraying me from head to toe with toxic water. Sliced myself on a piece of razor-sharp steel at 8am and watched the blood bubble up through the cut. Man, what a beautiful sight.  Gee, only eight more hours ?

 Ten hours a day of this, four days a week. This is so typical of my daily routine. It’s humid as hell, but they won’t turn on the A/C until everyone’s miserable just to save a little money. Go into the restroom to relieve myself and I have to take a wet and a dry paper towel into the stall with me to wipe the urine off the toilet seat one of those two-legged bio-hazards known as my co-workers has so courteously sprayed all over it. Fucking swine; do they do this at home?

Daily I watch my co-workers spit on the floor. Walk out of the bathroom without washing their hands and head straight for the lunchroom where they proceed to finger-fuck the vending machines and the microwaves, etc. Stand in front of the Coke machine and repeatedly sneeze all over it.  Ugh!  I’m surprised I don’t have some incurable disease by now. I’ve made it through three days of this torture; I’ll be damned if I’m going through five. Can’t really afford it, but I’ve spent the last two Fridays going places I didn’t want to go and doing things I didn’t want to do. This weekend is mine! I’ll get through the next two weeks somehow.

Sit in silence. Speak to no one. Don’t eat. Can’t sleep even though I’m exhausted. Too wired on caffeine. Too pissed off. Too depressed. Too angry.  A new-found energy. The country’s turning into shit and no one cares. Too busy watching Dancing With The Stars. Someone the other night was telling me I worry too much about politics. Shouldn’t worry about it. Nothing you can do anyway. He’s probably right.

On one hand I know he’s right. On the other hand, I want to roar with anger. Reap vengence. Avenge everyone who’s ever been screwed over by The System. Make heads roll. Helter skelter now!

But realistically I do nothing. I sit. And I type. And type. And type. Throwing pennies at a stainless steel wall. I’ll take it down yet, you just watch me.

Tap. Tap. Tap. I get a thought; my fingers dance. My keypad morphs into the keys of a grand piano. For a fleeting moment, I’m Amadeus; I’m Mozart. Composing a melody so beautiful it makes men cry and women swoon. The imaginary crowd in my head rises to its feet applauding.

Huh… what?  Oh. Lost my train of thought.  That does it. I’m tired; I’m hungry. I’m outta here.



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