This is where I'll put the stuff I write that I think you might want to read if you're interested in:
Randomness; Tea; Philosophical Insight as to the reason for the existence of bottled water; Poetry about life; music; computers; sociology; psychology; literature; awesome bongs; kittens; anything I feel is worth writing a paragraph or more about; etc.
Randomness; Tea; Philosophical Insight as to the reason for the existence of bottled water; Poetry about life; music; computers; sociology; psychology; literature; awesome bongs; kittens; anything I feel is worth writing a paragraph or more about; etc.
I drink my coffee black. (A short work of descriptive fiction)
I wake up to the grey hue of the silent morning, the other half of the bed is cold, desolate. Another morning alone, I think to myself, as I slowly urge the lower half of my body to slide out over the side of the bed and sit myself up.
Coffee is a must. I stand up, with effort, and plod my way to the kitchen. All the while, the thoughts of past relationships, mostly sad ones, flitter through my head. I pick up the bag of Dark Sumatra coffee purchased from the shop down the street and prepare to measure out enough for six cups of coffee. Just for myself, of course. I realize that I don’t have anything to do today other than relax. I think, as the coffee brewer hisses with steam, what day is it? I check my watch. It’s February 14th. Valentine’s Day. I despise this day. A conglomerated day full of sappy cards and finite flowers.
Only Valentine’s Day could merit such thoughts of being alone. Waking up in my studio apartment, devoid of human contact, just like the night before, when I fell asleep watching a movie in my living room, only to wake up at 3:00 a.m. because I was uncomfortable on my couch. I didn’t even realize the ramifications of today, the constant, nagging feeling of isolation within my own personal life. I have no one. I live alone, work in my cubicle alone, and sleep alone. What value am I? Do I contribute to the progression of society as a whole? It doesn’t seem so.
Coffee’s done. Priority shift. I reach for my Abbey Road coffee cup that my father bought me while he was in England. It’s my favorite, not because I like the Beatles, but because my father bought it. It was a gift. Also because all the other cups are dirty. I open my front door and pick the paper up off of my cliché welcome mat, with a smile on the left side, and "Welcome" in fancy letters on the right. It’s a dirty mat, covered in the mud that I would scrape off the bottoms of my shoes when I arrive home, so as not to track dirt into my tiny apartment. I might have company, who knows? Who am I kidding. No one is coming. I am going to sit here, alone, all day, and wallow in my own self pity. I’m a pathetic whelp. Maybe my mother did raise me right, but what good does it do if I am not satisfied with my own life?
The phone rings. Not the land line, it’s my cell. I wonder where it is, as I slowly make my way around the living room, ears honing into the location of the ring, getting ready to pounce. I find the phone between the endtable and the wall, flashing and vibrating like a seizure-inducing robot. It’s my mother calling to wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day, no doubt. I decide not to answer, but she leaves a message. It’s better than her calling me more than once, I conclude.
I drink my coffee black. I can’t stand all the cream and sugar, I just want the bitter, acidic taste to ferment in my mouth, creating that strange tingling, and dark brown saliva. I think I might want to make some breakfast. Or not. I’ve never been much of a breakfast person, I always make my coffee, and start my day.
Coffee is a must. I stand up, with effort, and plod my way to the kitchen. All the while, the thoughts of past relationships, mostly sad ones, flitter through my head. I pick up the bag of Dark Sumatra coffee purchased from the shop down the street and prepare to measure out enough for six cups of coffee. Just for myself, of course. I realize that I don’t have anything to do today other than relax. I think, as the coffee brewer hisses with steam, what day is it? I check my watch. It’s February 14th. Valentine’s Day. I despise this day. A conglomerated day full of sappy cards and finite flowers.
Only Valentine’s Day could merit such thoughts of being alone. Waking up in my studio apartment, devoid of human contact, just like the night before, when I fell asleep watching a movie in my living room, only to wake up at 3:00 a.m. because I was uncomfortable on my couch. I didn’t even realize the ramifications of today, the constant, nagging feeling of isolation within my own personal life. I have no one. I live alone, work in my cubicle alone, and sleep alone. What value am I? Do I contribute to the progression of society as a whole? It doesn’t seem so.
Coffee’s done. Priority shift. I reach for my Abbey Road coffee cup that my father bought me while he was in England. It’s my favorite, not because I like the Beatles, but because my father bought it. It was a gift. Also because all the other cups are dirty. I open my front door and pick the paper up off of my cliché welcome mat, with a smile on the left side, and "Welcome" in fancy letters on the right. It’s a dirty mat, covered in the mud that I would scrape off the bottoms of my shoes when I arrive home, so as not to track dirt into my tiny apartment. I might have company, who knows? Who am I kidding. No one is coming. I am going to sit here, alone, all day, and wallow in my own self pity. I’m a pathetic whelp. Maybe my mother did raise me right, but what good does it do if I am not satisfied with my own life?
The phone rings. Not the land line, it’s my cell. I wonder where it is, as I slowly make my way around the living room, ears honing into the location of the ring, getting ready to pounce. I find the phone between the endtable and the wall, flashing and vibrating like a seizure-inducing robot. It’s my mother calling to wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day, no doubt. I decide not to answer, but she leaves a message. It’s better than her calling me more than once, I conclude.
I drink my coffee black. I can’t stand all the cream and sugar, I just want the bitter, acidic taste to ferment in my mouth, creating that strange tingling, and dark brown saliva. I think I might want to make some breakfast. Or not. I’ve never been much of a breakfast person, I always make my coffee, and start my day.
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Recent Blog Entries by Tr3n7
- Love has Won (02-19-2008)
- I drink my coffee black. (A short work of descriptive fiction) (02-19-2008)
