I COULDN’T GET OUT OF BED – Writetober / Inktober #7
I COULDN’T GET OUT OF BED.
It was awful. There was no reason to. Everything outside was disgusting and everything inside bored me to my core. I couldn’t think of anything to do, so I didn’t. I was so tired. Tired from doing nothing and being nothing. How could something like this make one so exhausted? I lay in bed and pass time by cataloging the pain that runs through my body, in my mind. The aches and pains are so severe, but not anything compared to the thought of having to deal with the “normal” humans out in the world. They are awful. They can’t drive. They speak too loudly. They smell. Their faces wear masks of fake smiles and joy. Mothers yell at their children and yank them by their arms. Idiots trick everyone into thinking their dogs are service animals. No one gets out of your way and doesn’t wait for you to move out of theirs. Women dress provocatively and give dirty looks if you stare. Men try to look tough and give you dirty looks if you make eye contact. It rains and suddenly the roads become unbearable. The seasons change and with it the weather. The winter cold hurts my bones and joints. The summer heat makes me want to kill. The pollen of the spring makes me not be able to breathe and the fall, the fall which I’m in now, turns life into a slow death. My loneliness, once thought unbearable, remains my only solace in a world of death and decay, full of assholes and ingrates. Entitled shits who want the riches of life, the riches of the world, handed to them on a silver platter. The same ones who want to change the meaning of words. The same ones who want to be the new world regime. Why get out of bed with this madness? Why try? Why put on a smile to be just be accused of being a Nazi or a racist or a fascist or a sexist or any other ist that you can think of. I want to live on Mars, or the Moon, or Hell, if that is still a place. Maybe then I would get out of bed. Maybe I wouldn’t.