• He opened the door for me. The scent of some lemon pastry he was baking came flooding out of his house.
    I felt the smell sting my eyes and it gave them the final push to let all the built up water loose.
    “Daniel?” Was the last thing I ever heard him say before his final yelp was dulled behind the blast of a mafia issued handgun.

    These are the days you feel miserable. The days you have to force yourself out of bed.
    The days that when, you finally lift your exhausted spirit out of bed, you think of nothing else but to be back in it. You tell yourself today may have meaning- that today may be better than all the others. Today has potential.
    You lie to yourself.
    These are the days when you don’t bother putting your happy mask on.
    The days you tell yourself five hours of sleep is all you need. When in reality, five hours is all you can get.

    This is the day after your girlfriend left you.
    The week after your dog died.

    But you never really liked your girlfriend anyway.
    You can buy a new dog. If you wanted to deal with its annoying yipping and his obnoxious fecal matter.

    This is the morning you don’t have to take a shower because you did last night.
    To save time on your busy morning schedule.
    This is the morning you get to work late anyway.

    This is the same morning your back hurts from carrying the same bag you’ve had for years.
    The same morning you burn your hand on the same disgusting coffee you’ve bought from the same place.
    The same morning you sit in the same elevator awkwardly with the same people.

    This is the day you will make a change for yourself.
    Today, you’re delusional again.

    You will go to a bar on a weekday, you tell yourself.
    You will meet new people, have fun.
    Today is the day something just came up.
    And you spend your night eating cold pizza.

    Tomorrow is a new day.
    Tomorrow you will have the energy and potential you didn’t today.
    Because you will go to bed four minutes earlier.
    And your bed is made.
    Maybe tonight you will sleep well.
    And dream.

    But when I wake up, I realize
    That I didn’t dream.
    I still don’t have the energy to get up out of bed.
    And take that shower I told myself I would have the strength to.

    But I have to.
    Because if you don’t
    People will think you’re crazy.
    And nasty.
    And stinky.
    And unhygienic.


    You will feel uncomfortable.
    On the train,
    The bus,
    Your own car.
    You will be afraid to be judged.
    By your co-workers.
    Your friends.
    The man on the radio.
    Strangers.

    So I take that shower.
    And fall asleep sitting down.
    The warm water slapping my ugly, naked back.

    “Breakfast?” Anybody says to themselves
    Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
    Breakfast makes your morning happy.
    Breakfast gives you energy.
    Breakfast is a waste of time.

    You take the subway.
    The bus.
    The ferry.
    Somebody gets sick.
    Public transportation gets delayed.
    They waste time on your sensitive schedule.

    Half a million people get off at your stop.
    Stuck behind baby strollers up the stairs.
    Old women getting off the bus.
    Kids running off the ferry.

    You stop in front of the coffee and pastry cart.
    You buy mediocre coffee.
    That bagel smells outstanding.
    You’re too busy to eat.
    You’re not really in the mood, either.

    You’re on the 11th floor.
    You sit down in front of the same computer you’ve been in front of for six years.
    9:07.
    Your morning is over.
    You’ve been working for hours.
    9:13.



    *

    The introduction is a poem. Get over it. People write whatever they want, however they want. That’s something you should get used to. You should also get used to working a dead end job, being lonely and cooking for yourself.
    Because there’s a good chance that’s how you’ll be living your life.
    Sure, you can pretend to be happy.
    Or maybe, you actually are.
    Maybe you have a beautiful, faithful wife. Maybe you’ve lived with her for the past eleven years, and maybe your heart still soars whenever she walks in the same room as you.
    Maybe you’re rich. You spent a fair number of years in the most prestigious school around.
    You’re respected and renowned, your co-workers invite you to lunch, people kiss your a** because they genuinely like you.
    You can afford to spend ten dollars for lunch.
    You pay the check for a six hundred dollar meal every time you go out with friends.

    Or maybe you’re just as miserable as myself and the rest of the world.
    Maybe your girlfriend is gaining weight and you’re finding her even less attractive as the weeks go by.
    You’re definitely struggling with money. You think of moving to Canada for the better wages and free health care.
    You pack your own lunch from last night’s leftovers.
    You never offer to pay for the whole check.
    You have a therapist to help you understand why you’re so miserable.
    When the reason is obvious.
    “Doc, I’m crazy!” you’ll say.
    Help me, Doc.
    Help me solve my problems.
    Solve my problems for me, Doc.
    Use your doctor magic and make my problems disappear.
    Bring me to Canada.

    There has to be a cure for being sad.
    “There is,” your therapist would say.
    You have to make a commitment. Talk with friends, do something new. Make a change.
    There has to be an alternative.
    Lexapro, Prozac, Parnate, Celexa.
    Medication is expensive, you say.
    I can’t afford to take medication, depression is mental. Helping myself should be free.
    My depression isn’t that serious anyway. It’ll go away.
    I just need to eat better.
    Sleep earlier.
    Catch up with old friends.
    Work harder.
    Buy that new jacket.

    *

    “What is this crap?” You may be saying.
    “I’m not like any of this at all!
    Mr. Narrator, I think you’re just some depressed maniac.
    I think you can only be content with yourself if you make everybody just as miserable as yourself.”

    “Well, Mr. Reader,” I’d respond,
    “You’re an idiot.”

    You’re an idiot for lying to yourself.
    You’re an idiot for not remembering that phase you had back in middle school.
    That time you realized your parents don’t honestly care for you.
    That they’re selfish.
    And they don’t even care for each other.
    That time you realized all people are assholes.
    That time you were given evidence of global warming.
    The time you saw those poor polar bears.
    When you realized humanity hasn’t helped the planet in the slightest.
    That time your soul mate left you.

    “Christ, this is depressing. Mr. Narrator, do you even have a single friend?”

    I do, actually. His name is Adam.
    Adam is an idiot.

    *
    Let me tell you how I met Adam.

    Adam came up to my sorry a** one day when I was sulking in Union Square, and before you ask- Yes, I do live in New York.
    Anyway, my girlfriend, Joanna, had just left me.
    Joanna was an idiot, by the way.

    While on my way to visit her, she called me and said we were through.
    “Damn,” I said, and hung up.

    And that’s how Joanna got away. Quick and simple.

    I figured I could stop and get something to eat. I didn’t feel like cooking for one on a Saturday afternoon.
    No sense crying on an empty stomach.

    So I stopped at Cosi’s, and before you ask- Yes, I do mean that expensive sandwich spot.
    The place where you can get a slightly more than decent Black Forest Ham and brie sandwich.
    The place where you can get your sandwich with home-toasted bread.
    And home-baked chips.
    The place you can snobbily spend your money even when buying a goddamn sandwich.

    I bought a dozen-dollar-meal and brought it to Union Square to eat.
    Oh, and it was raining.
    It wasn’t pouring, just sort of drizzling. There was that light mist of water that, once in a while, came heavy with a breeze.
    But anyway, Union Square was empty, and that was rare.

    There are, in my opinion, very few things that are better than gloomy atmospheres.
    Some of my personal favorites are deserted public squares, the window seats of coffee shops on a rainy day, graveyards in fall, and when you’re this depressed, those gloomy atmospheres feel more relaxing than the hottest days at the beach, or the prettiest walk through the park.

    Anyway, I took a seat in the center on Union, on the damp, concrete steps. I sat there with my dozen-dollar-meal, unkempt, rained on hair, sleepless eyes and wet socks.
    Wet socks are the ******** worst, by the way.
    I sat there, eating my snobby meal for only a few minutes when a massive, layered umbrella blotted out whatever light made it through the cement colored clouds.

    “Wow, you look terrible,” I heard
    I looked up to see some stupid blonde guy staring at me.
    Smiling with his stupid little grin, all on his stupid little face.

    “Thanks,” I mutter to him.
    He reaches his hand out for me to shake it.
    “Adam,” he introduces himself as.

    And that’s how I met Adam. The stupid little friendly blonde.

    *

    “That’s terrible!” You may be thinking.
    “Why would you call your friend stupid like that? Especially since he’s so nice!”
    “Well Mr. Reader,” I’ll respond.
    “He’s an idiot because he’s so nice.”

    The friendlier a man is, the more ignorant he is.
    The only way a man can be that friendly is if he spent his entire life in social darkness.
    A man who’s that friendly must have been homeschooled.
    Has never heard of Global Warming.
    Has never watched the news.
    Read the local newspaper.
    Been mugged.

    *
    “So, Mr. Narrator,” you may be thinking,
    “What the hell am I reading? Is this a memoir or a fiction text? What’s the plot? The conflict? What’s the actual goddamn story here?”

    “Well, Mr. Reader,” I’ll respond,
    “I actually don’t know. I figured I could write about everybody being an idiot, maybe a story will pop out in my rambles. Or hell, maybe I can give the whole rant a title itself and call it a story.”
    “And for the love of God, stop calling me Mr. Narrator.”
    My name is David.

    “Well, Mr. David,” you may be thinking,
    “I want to hear more about this “Adam” character. He seems pretty dope.”

    Well, I was never one for giving readers what they wanted, but I guess I can make an exception.
    Just this once.

    So let me tell you another story about Adam.
    Actually, this is probably the same story.

    Anyway, when Adam reached out to shake my hand, I just stared at it for a while. I figured the guy was either an idiot, homosexual, or making fun of me.
    It turns out I was right about the first one, but he wasn’t the brain-dead, social reject I figured he was.
    I shifted from my view of his hand to his stupid little head. I looked at him with a confused face. You know, with one eyebrow higher than the other. Then I sighed, and gave him a limpy.
    A limpy, by the way, refers to the firmness of the actual handshake.
    Adam threw himself down onto the concrete floor next to me. I remember he looked at me and said “So why did she leave you?”
    I faked another confused glance. “I’m sorry,” I spoke coldly; “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Oh, please.” He replied, “a man doesn’t stuff his face in the rain when he gets married or promoted. I’ve seen your look before- and you, my friend, just got dumped.”
    “Also,” he added, “my a** is getting wet.”
    *

    I really hate writing about that guy.
    I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t actually hate him as a person.
    He’s just boring to write about.
    And if you’re wondering, yes- that’s why I decided to abruptly end that little story. Don’t worry, though, I’ll get back to it later.
    When I feel like it.

    You may think that’s bullshit or stupid.
    “You can’t just cut off a story when you feel like it, or when you’re getting bored! You have to make me feel interested in the story!”
    Watch me.
    I’m not writing this for you.
    Actually, that’s not fair.
    I don’t know who I’m writing this for.
    Like I mentioned before, this is all cluttered gibberish.
    Crap I’m compiling in the hopes of making a story.
    And I don’t think crap has a format.
    So it should be fair to say that I can put my crap in any order I damn feel like.
    Actually…If I want to write a story I really should stop ranting like this and actually write a damn story.
    So let me get back to Adam.
    But fast forward a bit, I can’t remember what else we said.
    Also, that s**t was getting boring.
    So anyway,
    I remember Adam buying me coffee.
    And I also remember he had to make that an adventure.
    An adventure for me, at least.
    We went over to some odd restaurant/bar-ish joint. We were greeted by some brunette with her hair in a ponytail, tied up high. She looked do-able at the time, but her high pitched, excited “welcome,” was a huge turnoff.
    When we sat down, Adam immediately ordered a plate of Penne Arrabiata.
    I remember giving him an odd look and ordering coffee, black.
    “Yeah, no way,” Adam interrupted. “He’ll have a Spiced Aruba.”
    “Is that all?” Ponytail asked.
    “That’s all.”
    When she nodded and walked away, I looked at Adam and said
    “What the hell is a spiced Aruba?”
    He winked and said “I’ll tell you when you finish it.”
    I remember feeling a little bit freaked out at this point. “s**t, you’re not gay, are you?” I asked
    He chuckled and said “nah man, straight as a straw.”
    “Then what was with that wink?”
    “It’s my trademark.”

    *
    My Spiced Aruba came in a tall glass cone, whipped cream, a stick of cinnamon and a chunk of mango floating in it.
    “This is coffee?” I asked.
    “It has coffee in it.”
    “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
    “Eat the mango first,” Adam said, “It’ll make the rest of the drink smoother.”
    Obeying Adam, I fished the mango out with a small spoon that came with the drink.
    The second I threw the chunk of fruit into my mouth, my tongue, cheeks and gums felt shocked. Literally, shocked. Like I’d put my mouth over an electrical socket and starting slobbering all over it.

    My mouth went numb, and eventually hot. A handful if cinnamon Altoids were thrown into my mouth.
    I tried to shout, but my voice was as shot as my taste buds.
    “Adam, what the ********!” I said in a stern whisper, “what the ******** is with this mango?”
    He just sat there, smiling.
    “That’s not the mango you’re tasting,” he said, “that taste’s from the drink itself.”
    I was on the brink of tears, I kept the mango in my mouth, and was about to spit the damn thing out.
    “Chew it, already!”
    I was afraid to. I was afraid that the mango itself was tainted, that if I bit into the mango, a horrible, battery acid, cinnamon taste would creep down into my systems until it burned holes in my stomach and made me s**t blood.
    “Chew!”
    I bit into it.
    It was a mango, the sweetest and the most amazing ******** fruit I had ever had in my life.
    Everywhere the juice ran in my mouth, relief followed.
    I swished around the smooth, sweet and thick juice like it was Listerine.
    When I swallowed, I felt a soothing tingle follow a path down my throat.
    The same soothing feeling you get from strong, mentholated Chap Stick.

    My body went limp with post-adrenaline exhaustion. The whole experience was terrifying.
    I sat, drenched with a combination of cold sweat and rain, my a** and jacket sticking to the imitation leather of the seats. Ponytail came back around with a plate of pasta, hidden under mounds of sauce.
    She smiled at me, noticing my over-reclined posture. No doubt aware of my mini-adventure.
    “Enjoy,” Ponytail spoke with a wink and walked away.
    “Again with the winks,” I slurred.

    Adam didn’t waste any time when it came to eating. This time, I looked up from a yawn to see him with a leaking mouth full of pasta, and half an empty plate.
    I looked at him, amused and unconsciously, lifted the cone glass up to my lips and took a large sip.

    *
    Nothing ran through my head when I lifted that cursed beverage to my lips. It just happened. I figure that I simply forgot how awful the drink was, and figured it was just a glass of water.
    Or that ******** black coffee I wanted to order.

    I was surprised when I found that the same, terrible taste had found its way back into my mouth.
    This time, however, wasn’t as brutal as the original taste that dowsed the mango.
    It still had the taste of cinnamon and rattlesnake poison, but it seemed dull.
    Like flat soda, or stale bread.
    Having no food to wash the taste out, I asked Adam if I could get bite of his pasta.
    “Knock yourself out,” he said with a grin.
    I picked up the fork that was dug into the dish, skewered and scooped up ribbons of pasta and chunky, bloody sauce, and quickly threw it into my mouth.
    This was another decision I regretted fairly quickly.

    It took a few seconds to set in, but Satan had made my mouth a vacation home, and all the milk and cold water in the world wouldn’t be enough to evict him.

    I gulped down both of our glasses of water, cursing Adam out between breaths and sips.
    Three waiters, including Ponytail, were watching us, smiling and giggling since before the mango, and before the bite of pasta. Ponytail pranced over to us with a serving tray with half a dozen cups of water. She came over to our table and held the tray at hip-height, offering me the glasses.
    I thanked her and downed three before feeling my intestines on the verge of exploding.
    She put the empty glasses on the tray and put two more glasses in front of Adam and one more in front of me, and before walking back to the kitchen, she turned to me and said: “the code for the bathroom is 3581.”

    The whole time, by the way, Adam sat there with his stupid little smile, just eating his pasta like it was pudding.
    “So how was it?” He asked me.
    “I have to piss,” I grunted, and stood up.

    *
    The bathroom was shockingly clean, even for one locked with a keypad.
    One would figure that at a bar with food this destructive, the bathroom would resemble something painted by Picasso.
    Standing in front of the automatic flushing toilet with my schlong poking out my pants, I noticed a few things. Bathroom poetry, for example.
    Bathroom poetry, by the way, is my favorite.
    This particular masterpiece said
    “We are slaves to porcelain and ceramic,
    We need them more than they need us.”
    It was written in crayon, right above the toilet bowl. These are the moments I wish I went through with my whole “photography phase” and turned it into a career.
    There were stains in the toilet, brown spots on the rim of where water and s**t escaped through.
    Also, there were mirrors all around the bathroom, projecting me holding my best friend in four different angles. The point of putting a bunch of mirrors in bathrooms to create the multiple perspective piss, I realized, is to exaggerate the size of the man’s dangling article.
    “No matter how small a man’s junk may be,” a friend named Jamie once said, “He will always feel more confident when seeing it at different angles.”
    “The full mirrored walls,” he added, “Are much more common in gay-bars.
    Homosexual men will get boners from so much as imagining themselves with a p***s larger than they’re used to, let alone seeing themselves with the illusion of one.
    A man will also tip better when he has just seen himself with an enhanced parcel, so that’s why bars and restaurants will put them up in their bathrooms.”

    Jamie told me all this crap the first time we met at some noodle shop, and judging from that story, you can tell that Jamie is an idiot.
    And since I know you’re wondering, yes-he is gay.

    *
    When I came back to the table Jamie was sitting at, I saw him with the check in front of him, cash tucked between the receipt and plastic holder.
    The sight relieved me.
    I wouldn’t have to make my third dine-and-dash of the week.
    It’s a habit, alright? Stop pestering me.
    I dodge bills for a good reason.
    “Well what’s the reason, you little douche?” You may be asking.
    “I’m poor?”
    “Not buying it.”
    “I’m addicted?”
    Yeah, that’s right. I’m addicted. Deal with it.
    At least I can admit it.
    Now leave me alone, I’m sensitive about it.

    Anyway,
    I plopped down in front of Adam, in my old seat.
    He sat there, with no more than a sip gone from his two cups of water.
    With a stupid little smile.
    “You wanna’ get the tip?” He asked.
    “Sure,” I sighed, “How much was the uh..meal?”
    “Forty,” he smiled.
    “For ********’ coffee and pasta?”
    Nothing more than a smile from him.
    I tossed him four dollars.
    “Let’s get out of here.”
    Adam got up and started walking out before me and I noticed something about Adam.
    He was wearing cowboy boots.

    Outside, I looked behind us, up at the café’s sign.
    “Spice Bar,” It read.
    And underneath that, “Your a** isn’t safe with us.”




    *

    One morning, I remember waking up to the drifting, buttery smell of croissants. Her side of our twin-sized bed was empty, which meant breakfast.
    I slid out of bed and found her in the kitchen spreading hazelnut over some croissants. She was a self-proclaimed baker- and a damn good one.
    And just like me, she was unemployed.
    To be honest, neither of us cared.
    At the very least, I convinced myself I was happy.
    And before you ask, yes- there is tragedy behind all this.


    *
    I remember people would call me “Eeyor.”
    It’s pretty easy to guess why.
    I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. The worst part is, I would mess the bed if I didn’t.
    The drink from the day before left my bladder constantly on the verge of exploding.