Fuck Nothing
Saturday, February 14th, 2009
Walt sat in his chair, pensive. He was thinking about today and his stint of depression: car troubles, money troubles, and girl troubles. He felt like he was made of trouble. Why had he acted the way he did? Blowing up and breaking down in front of his co-workers was not the act of a sane man. He didn’t understand why his normal face, “the daily lie” as he liked to call it, wasn’t working anymore. He was happy – once. Maybe his problem was simply the past tense. He had a foreboding feeling that, while he was happy two months ago, it would never happen again. Everything in his life seemed to burn-out, fade-away, flush down the drain of depression into darkness. But why had he been happy then? He was making roughly the same money, driving the same shitty truck and dating an equally interesting girl. Walt couldn’t wrap his head around the change.
The brakes went out on his life, but he could recover in August. He was doing so well. Now his wheel was falling off at 50 mph, and it left him dangling on the edge of a breakdown. The truck never seemed to work. No stereo, bald tires, bad brakes, etc. Walt wondered why he drove such a death trap. He needed to drive up-state the next day; maybe it would finally crash and be done with. No, probably not. He didn’t have luck like that. With fate’s sick track record, the truck could crash, roll, explode even and leave him without a single scratch. That was the tragedy he saw. Everything fell apart, died, and he was stuck living with the cold embers. This is (mostly) why he drank.
Walt sat in his chair, pensive. He was thinking about today and his stint of depression: car troubles, money troubles, and girl troubles. He felt like he was made of trouble. Why had he acted the way he did? Blowing up and breaking down in front of his co-workers was not the act of a sane man. He didn’t understand why his normal face, “the daily lie” as he liked to call it, wasn’t working anymore. He was happy – once. Maybe his problem was simply the past tense. He had a foreboding feeling that, while he was happy two months ago, it would never happen again. Everything in his life seemed to burn-out, fade-away, flush down the drain of depression into darkness. But why had he been happy then? He was making roughly the same money, driving the same shitty truck and dating an equally interesting girl. Walt couldn’t wrap his head around the change.
The brakes went out on his life, but he could recover in August. He was doing so well. Now his wheel was falling off at 50 mph, and it left him dangling on the edge of a breakdown. The truck never seemed to work. No stereo, bald tires, bad brakes, etc. Walt wondered why he drove such a death trap. He needed to drive up-state the next day; maybe it would finally crash and be done with. No, probably not. He didn’t have luck like that. With fate’s sick track record, the truck could crash, roll, explode even and leave him without a single scratch. That was the tragedy he saw. Everything fell apart, died, and he was stuck living with the cold embers. This is (mostly) why he drank.
