365 Pages of Whatever: January 19
Five-thirty P.M. was unwelcome.
Really, most things were unwelcome, so he got up and put his head in his hands before checking his phone, which he had put on silent, apparently. He had several new messages, which he did not open, due to deep-seated terror which he could only barely feel. He went to the fridge and downed the rest of the orange juice in the carton, which was only just beginning to ferment. He knew with perhaps 90% certainty that this would not make him sick. He had been kind of half-assedly studying the human body as of late.
When the orange juice was all gone, he tossed the carton into the recycling without rinsing it, and then went to make coffee. He turned on his machine and watched the water drip down, listening to its weird noise, and then went to the bathroom to sit on the toilet aimlessly without using it. When the coffee was done, he poured himself a cup and added cream and sugar and sat on the couch, drinking it. He lived entirely alone.
Sparkplug began very slowly and softly to feel anger which he couldn't source. He couldn't think of a way to express it, so he groaned softly, but that only made him angrier. He walked at a medium pace across the room and grabbed a sad-looking couch cushion and threw it against the wall, which felt a little bit good, but still, his anger got stronger! He started to get scared. Feeling this kind of anger was an experience he didn't know how to deal with. He began to pace the room. After two minutes of pacing, he put on shoes and grabbed his wallet and keys and walked outside to go buy cigarettes.
He was theoretically supposed to quit, but he had not made any true attempts, at least, none he felt counted. He bought two packs of the cheapest brand and then took them outside and immediately smoked one, and then another, and then a third, and then a fourth.
After his fifth, as he was lighting up his sixth, he leaned back a bit and brushed the back of his scalp against the concrete wall of the gas station.
Suddenly, he hit his head really deliberately against the gas station wall. This hurt a lot and made him dizzy. He thought to himself, “Why the fuck did I do that?”
“Why the fuck did you do that?” sad a voice. He jumped. There was a person standing there in a long, black skirt and a floral top.
“Why not?” he retorted badly, rubbing the sore spot under his hair.
“What do you mean, 'Why not'? That looked terrible. Why would you do that? In public, even?”
“I don't... uh... I dunno.” He felt angry at this individual in front of him, and he again was unsure why.
“Okay,” said the skirted dumbass in front of him. “Well... have... fun hurting yourself?”
“Cool.” He inhaled the cancerous fuckery from his paper tube.
He sat on the infected pavement for a while and thought about maybe getting a pet. Something warm dripped down the back of his neck. He reached back and touched it, and it was indeed wet, and when he looked at it, it was drying blood on his fingers. He was aware from his lazy studying of the human body that head wounds tended to bleed a whole lot. Sure enough, in the next few minutes, the blood was falling down his skin rather fast. He imagined that his shirt was ruined now, as he couldn't bleach it, given the color of it. He got up and walked back to his apartment. He had realized very quickly upon leaving his place originally that he would be cold the whole time, but rather than ever turn around, he had just decided to live with it. However, despite stoic intentions, when his place was in sight, he began to run toward it, and as he panted from running, his breath came out in uncomfortable, visible clouds.
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