I’m not sure what’s happened in my kitchen overnight, but it smells as though something has died.
I’m not sure where it’s coming from. I made peanut butter cookies last night. Could it be from the staling batter in the sink? The dishwasher was full, man. I don’t deserve the scent of rot for not emptying the whole thing late at night.
Sometimes, it feels like life is one calamity after another, a subtle and specially formed hell.
I fell on a skinny tree stump cut off at an absurdly pointed angle when I was eight and nearly died.
It’s becoming less and less of a question in my mind: did I actually die? Is this my hell? I mean, I stole some of those pink musclemen from a Toys ‘R’ Us when I was a child, but I felt horrible about it. Is that enough for the supposed god of mercy and love to sentence an eight year old to hell?
Or maybe I overdosed at some point. I’ve never done anything harder than mushrooms and LSD, but who knows? Laced with something? I drank a lot in my youth; maybe I aspirated out on the floor.
I don’t know, but every moment of joy seems calculated to serve as a reminder of what I’m losing as each new calamity piles on.
I think about death way more than I should.
Target: 500 words
Written: 316 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max
Comics: East Of West 13-15, East Of West: The World 1
Music: Know-It-All, Alessia Cara (what can I say? I dig introvert anthems.)