by Nic Olson
I drag my sorry ass outside in a desperation trip to the grocer. I don’t want to get groceries but I never want to get groceries, and I know that my one remaining pear won’t be enough to last me until Friday, even if I have no appetite. I forget my bike helmet in the apartment, so I risk permanent debilitation because I cannot look past the seven steps to my bedroom even though I know I may never walk again because of it. Politics.
One of those days where starting smoking sounds like a good idea because of how it reflects inner thought.
The grocer is sad. Only one jar of peanut butter on the shelf, wrinkled limes in the fridge, no deodorant left. But it has good intentions. I still manage to spend $60. Get home, eat a few crackers and a homemade hummus that tastes like tunafish, get back on the bike to go to the hockey rink.
The ice is soft like our discussion of impotence. Existential non-boners. We play hockey on the ice anyway. Rather destroy what is left of the rink in the name of a good time than preserve it for someone who would enjoy it less.
Somehow my Spam folder knows what I dreamt about the night before.
Couchsurfers from Quebec politely put up with my sad-man room and speak excitedly about their impending trips to brighter lands. The arcade is closed, the only sober thing to do in the city, so we go for a beer. We only get one beer, so it is good. Bed by ten. Not bad.
Trying to to distract myself because good people die when bureaucrats want successful track records for their resumes and political futures. Because the real world and the citizenry run in never-overlapping circles and we make decisions for the citizenry. We make decisions for the taxpayers who pay the wages. Politics.