Different Day

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
a quest for French toast is interrupted by a visit from the devil

Submitted: September 16, 2013

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Submitted: September 16, 2013

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The first thing I did today… I assume it was the same thing I do pretty much every morning, which is I roll off my mattress, go to the fridge and drink Coca-Cola to help wake up.  Yeah, that’s right, because today I drank the rest of the Coke.  Also some gin, because it was there.  And then I felt kinda gross, so I thought about taking a shower, but then I’d have to wait for the water to heat up.  So instead I put on my headphones.  I remember Regina Spektor singing about Mary Ann being a bitch, and I felt vaguely antagonized, so I switched it to Slayer.

I think I might have dozed off for a bit there, or went into a trance or something, because the next thing I remember is I was on my knees worshiping Satan.  Normally I’m not that spiritual.  But I remember feeling absolutely sure that something would be different today.  Or, not really that, but that I would do something different today.  Or that I should do something different today; I don’t know.  I don’t think I was fully conscious.  Anyway, I guess I technically did do something different today, kind of.

I went outside.  Because I was really set on getting a nice breakfast somewhere, like French toast.  I don’t know.  Everyone I saw, I was giving them this look, like “I don’t know where you’re going, or what your deal is, but I’m getting French toast.”  Nobody returned the look, so I assume I’m the only one that got French toast today.

Except, no, I didn’t get French toast.  I didn’t even go to a restaurant.  Now that I look back, I don’t even know where I was planning on going.  But somehow I ended up at a cemetery, which is probably one of the worst places to get breakfast, since everyone’s dead.  For the most part.  I saw some people running, like for exercise, which I think is a pretty weird thing to do at a graveyard.  Although I can see where they’re coming from.  Just being alive in a graveyard does wonders for my self-esteem.  Until I leave the graveyard and I realize that some of those dead people probably did something with their lives.

I feel like I should remember more, since this all happened today.  Anyway, at some point in the cemetery, I realized that I had no idea where my eyes were.  Like, I thought I’d lost my eyeballs on my way there, which really upset me, because maybe one of those runners had stepped on them.  So I started retracing my steps, but I didn’t see my eyes anywhere.

Eventually I did see the devil.  He was laughing at me, so I felt a bit betrayed, given that I’d spent the morning blaspheming on my living room floor.  I said something like, “It’s not funny.  I lost my eyes.”  But then he started laughing even harder, and I wanted to be all indignant, but his laugh was actually really adorable and I couldn’t help but smile.  When I realized I was smiling, I had this little revelation: Satan is the only thing that makes me happy.  He must have noticed, because he started slapping me on the shoulder.  It really hurt.  I told him to stop but he just slapped me harder.  Then I didn’t know what to feel.  I tried to express my mixed feelings about him, and I wanted to be really eloquent about it since he was the one person I looked up to, but all I ended up saying was something like “Satan! God; what the hell?”

Anyway, I had not lost my eyes.  They were still in my head.  So he had every right to laugh.

Eventually I tried to find my way back, hoping that maybe I could just give the French toast thing another try.  But I still wanted to win the devil’s favor.  I looked at everyone I saw on the way, trying to judge if they’d make a worthy sacrifice.  Hard to tell just by looking, but I thought it would be awkward if I actually discussed it with them.  One person did talk to me, though.  He asked me if I had a quarter.  I said no.  I actually didn’t have one.  I don’t know how I planned on paying for French toast.

At some point I got back to my apartment.  I don’t remember if I gave up on the French toast or what.  I do remember going to the fridge and wishing I had picked up some more Coca-Cola on the way.  There was still some gin, though, so I drank that.  And I thought about how I hated everything and everyone that ever existed.  I thought listening to Slayer might make me feel better, but it just made me think, “Satan doesn’t even care.”  So I switched it to Regina Spektor.  She sang something about sleeping with Samson, and I thought, “Regina, that’s so sweet.”

It would have been nice if my day had ended there, but that was only, like noon.  So I kept listening to music for a few hours, trying to sustain that pensive mood, but I just got more depressed.  So I figured I’d do something about it.  I’d make an effort to do something every day.  I thought I’d make a diary to keep track of my progress, so here this is.  After reading it, I think it’s more discouraging than motivating.  In one day I lost the rest of the Coca-Cola; I lost my eyes, for a bit— kind of, not really; I lost my faith— although I never really had a close relationship with Satan; and I don’t think I had any dignity to begin with, but if I did, I probably lost that while looking for the French toast that I didn’t even get.  Actually, writing all this down was probably the worst thing I did today.  Oh well.


© Copyright 2020 Michael Murder. All rights reserved.

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