A Typical Complaint of the Proletariate

There’s something that smells really off about this time of year. Like the whole world has finally stopped crying and now we’re just staring at our blood shot eyes in the mirror, trying to quantify our pain by the only visible remainder of what was. There are no bruises from tears, just the off smell of pent up mucus and dried tears. It fucking sucks. I don’t understand why we can’t all cry at different times. Nobody wants to be consoled by a sad person, but when the whole world is sad, the whole world is lonely at the same time.

People talk about the beauty in simplicity, but I never understood that. As they scream what the fuck about the human circulatory system, and yes, it is true. I’d rather an expanse of four leaf clovers than a piece of rotting tarp. I’d rather a pathetic news article about death than a poorly written book of motivational sayings that only get stocked in the gift section of whatever terrible book shop you go to because there’s nowhere else to go. I’d rather you fuck me up than never exist. Shit.

It’s not hot anymore. The only thing we know about this place is that it’s hot and that when we leave we will appreciate below 20 degree temperatures, but shit, it isn’t even hot today. It is like having a tooth pulled on the one day of the year it stops hurting. I am extracting a fucking tooth while the whole world is crying and there’s nobody around to hand us a fucking tissue. And that is a figure of speech because the tissue has only ever been a symbol of sympathy when one knows not what else to do. Everyone knows we’d rather deal with the sticky shit of eye expulsion. It is the only thing that makes it real.

And everyone is excited that it’s a new year and that means that everything is going to change, but as you said, it’s just another fucking day. Nothing changes but nothing stays the same. Nothing drastic happens and life goes on with nothing to write home about. Maybe there’s a new lot of ants building a home in your kitchen or one of your friends got a new job. But who cares? It doesn’t effect you. It doesn’t affect you. Effect. Affect. Effect. Affectation. I’ll fucking exaggerate your pretense.

Why, when we talk about the world, do we always mean the people in it.

I wish I was back.