Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Weekday Zombie

The day is Friday. You refresh your mail box one last time, hoping and crossing everything which comes in pairs. There are no new mails. You check your phone. You check the time.
You look around the small little cubicle you inhabit for five days and three/four nights a week. You want to yell ‘so long suckers! See you on Monday!’. You don’t. You are James Bond walking away from a building which is going to self immolate itself in your absence. In slow motion.
The traffic was an elephantine snake. You don’t care. You fling your bag. You are Michael Jordan. You kick off your shoes. You are Michael Jackson. You press play on your iPod and open a bottle of beer. You are a mean party animal. You light a cigarette. Feel the bitter taste coat the insides of your mouth. You drop your pants and take a wee. You are the musical water fountain. The iPod plays a slow song. You jump, shake, pull up your pants and run to change the song. You are the DJ. You suck hard on the first cigarette of the evening. You survey your wardrobe. You are the complete man. You hail an auto. Get in. Get out. You see people who know you.
Greet. Hug. Pint gets poured.
You step out for a smoke. You crib about lack of freedom. There are no cameras or news anchors around. You are a revolutionary. You step back in.
Greet. Hug. Pint gets poured.
Your current favorite dance track plays. You smile. You are invincible. You lock eyes with another smiling face. You nod. Raise your pint. You are in a Hollywood studio made teen chick flick. You are the cute guy all the girls whisper and giggle about. More people you know step through the door.
Greet. Hug. Pint gets poured.
The music winds down. The lights come on. You go to wherever there is music and booze.
Greet. Hug. Pour yourself a stiff drink.
You wake up. Feeling cold. Alone. You check your phone for time.
You step over sleeping bodies. Find your shoes. You are Jason Bourne. You check your breath. It reeks. You shut your mouth. You are tired. Sleepy. Hail an auto. Haggle. The early morning wakes you up. Your hands are cold. You don’t want to lift them away from under your butt cheeks. Empty streets. Speeding auto. You feel content. You watch as the world you know wakes up. You feel close to the maker. You enter your own room. It is warm. You feel cold inside. You check your phone.
You fall asleep. You dream. You are on a train rooftop. Ruffians are chasing you. You know kung-fu. You are swimming underwater. With a talking elephant. You hear the door bell ring. You wish it away. Your wish doesn’t come through. You reluctantly get up, open the door. Maid comes in. You press play on your dream reel. You want to know what the elephant was trying to say. Elephant has long gone. The dog follows you. You like the dog. Its big, fluffy and playful. The maid calls out your name. You grunt. Thank her. Close the door. You fall back on the bed. You can’t sleep. You check your phone.
You scratch your bum. You check the contents of the fridge. You rifle through the home delivery menus. You clean your belly button of all the lint. You pick up your phone and order for food. You brush your teeth. You surf channels. Door bell rings. You open, pay and serve yourself food. You overeat. You groan. You feel satisfied. You check your phone.
You go through your phonebook. You send a text. You call. Movie at six, dinner at the new Chinese place. You stub your cigarette.
Movie wasn’t that great. You eat. The food portions are surprisingly big. The bill is split. There is more booze mentions, less food. You are drunk and stuffed. You are a drunk chicken. You hail a cab. You reach home. You check your phone.
You sleep. You wake up. You wonder why you dreamt about an elephant and a dog. You spit. You gargle and wash your face. You brew your coffee. You switch on telly. Some action movie you watched years back is playing. You watch. You eat the food from the previous day. You clean up after yourself. You check your phone.
You groan. Tomorrow would be Monday. You wish to be invisible. You wish you didn’t have to go work. You wish death upon all the stupid people you work with and for. You wish you had enough money to not bother about work. You juggle reasons on whether you should go to work tomorrow or not. You open a bottle of beer and marinate on the couch. You order dinner. You check your phone.

You steel yourself. You fall asleep. You wake up. You check your phone. 

You are a zombie. 

No comments: