There’s something special about trash on the side of the freeway. Everything has a story, everything has been brought to this point, and everything has its place. There’s nothing special about trash inside of my residence. Nothing has a story, nothing’s moved since the big bang, and I need to find my place. I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with my roommates the roaches. I’ve developed a hate-hate relationship with my roommates the humans. As for my mental stability, I believe that it’s managed its way out of this purgatory along with the rest of what “makes me, me”.
The high point of my existence, if that’s what you’d label it as, is the rhythmic crackle of dead leaves on my front porch I won’t dare clean up. The low point of my existence, since that’s all that matters, is cleaning the crust out of my eyes just after exiting sleep. Most days I pray to the god I don’t believe in that one day the crust will meld my eyelids together. I’d end this charade myself, but what fun would that be. Perhaps, I’m meant to be here, neither rotting nor growing. I’m beginning to believe I’m meant to barely exist, only awaiting a death as interesting as I deserve.