Sobriety.

I used to envy those success-types, with the fancy pleasuresuits and all their sex-pills, holding their swelled heads higher than me, briskly teleporting to their next adrenaline fueled money romp. But I’ve learned to suppress fruitless emotions. It’s better to disregard putrid peculiarities than bleed my own brain for the sake of the approval of people that aren’t me. Maybe I’ll be insane from now on, that might be nice. Frolicking between mindless minds, impeding their prescience with a jolt of unpleasant comfort. I hope to exist past my life as an annoying buzz stuck in the cortex of those status-drones, if only as a reminder of the fragility of the human condition. Maybe I will grow half of a beard and the other half of a moustache, spending my days pelting all those who wear clothes with hard-boiled eggs and my nights boiling eggs. I’d complete my life’s only goal with the precision and frequency of a chain-smoker, happier than a stretching housecat. I could paint my body each day without cleansing the previous incarnation, allowing outside stimuli to erode my fleshy façade. That would be nice. But for the moment, the deli-man is calling my number. Tomorrow insanity. Today sandwich.