One Wednesday Morning

It’s early morning on a Wednesday and as usual, he’s still awake. He’s been yawning a couple of times, but he still couldn’t sleep. Clearing his throat and stretching a bit under the bedspread, he yawned again and scratched his head. He’s pretty much accustomed to his erratic sleeping pattern, especially lately, since his life reverted back to the old chaos it used to be.

Of course, he didn’t see it coming. As much as he would like to believe that he’s in full control of his life, someone or something always manages to pull the rug from under him and he’d be lying splat on his back. Again. Sometimes he feels as though he’s had enough. This is definitely one of those times.

Someone once said that life is an adventure. But what if you decide that you don’t want to venture any further? Of course there’s always the possibility of suicide but while the idea sometimes seems appealingly melodramatic, it’s too pathetic to actually be done.

He sat up, shook his head as if to clear it and looked at his phone. Perhaps it would help if he calls someone. But who? Most people are still asleep at this hour. Most normal people anyway.

He grimaced as he thought of that word. He never liked what it implies. Normal. The standardized right way of existence that everyone should observe and obey and those who do not are immediately cast aside as freaks, weirdoes, and just labeled as wrong. But then again, without that standard he would have nothing to go against, would he?

Maybe he should just get off the bed and try to find something to do. But what? Watch his old DVD’s? Attempt to finish that book he’s been meaning to write but never got around to finishing? Then he felt a familiar longing. Food. He really, really wanted food. And not just any food. The fatty, greasy kind. In fact, the fattier and greasier the better. Mc. Donald’s fried chicken. Thick slices of Meat Lovers from Pizza Hut. Burger King and its Whopper. Comfort food. But he couldn’t. Not just because he couldn’t afford any of them but because he wouldn’t be able to face the guilt afterwards. The guilt that he knew would come. The guilt that would always come. Well, that and self-loathing. Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s broke. A sort of blessing in disguise.

Standing in front of the mirror, he lifted his shirt and carefully observed the profile of his stomach. Flat as a board. The result of two tablets of e and hours on the dance floor last weekend, combined with a sparing diet of fruit and liquids afterwards. Would he lose it as well this week as he always does, finally succumbing to the temptation of satisfying his appetite, knowing that this weekend he’d repeat the same cycle all over again?

Yet this weekend is different. This weekend he will not be able to indulge in his usual drug-a-thon. Considering his current financial condition, this weekend will consist of staying home and doing absolutely nothing. He groaned aloud. Even the mere thought is making him depressed. And his depression is making him long even more for the food. It’s a vicious cycle. Obviously it started somewhere and if he thought really hard he might remember it but he sure as hell can’t see when or where it’s going to end. Possibly with him lying in a hospital bed with tubes poking out of his body. Or in a coffin.

He grimaced again as he thought about it. It wasn’t the thought of death that bothered him. It was pain. He didn’t like it. In fact, he’d once said that he wouldn’t mind death, as long as it’s absolutely painless. After all, what’s the point of life if you’re not even sure what you’re living for?

He checked his reflection again. This time examining his cheekbones. He’s always hated his cheeks. His university friends had this habit of pinching them because they were so soft. He wanted to slap them. But he didn’t. It was easier to let people do what they wanted, as much as he hated it then. But now, there’s a line running from under his cheekbones to his mouth. Pressing his cheeks with his hands, he thought that they weren’t as plump as they used to be. He smiled at his reflection and confirmed that it’s true. He’s definitely slimmer now than he used to be.

Of course, losing weight has its disadvantages. He hasn’t been filling the seat of his jeans as much as he used to, but there’s always a price to pay for everything. And if he had to choose between a round butt and a flat stomach, he’d take the latter in a heartbeat. Of course it would be nice to have both, but hey, he’s never felt the need to have it all. And as far as what others think, fuck it. He’s doing this for himself, because it makes him feel good, not for anyone else. And if they don’t like it, that’s too bad. He’s got enough problems to deal with.

He jumped back on the bed and slipped under the covers. As the sun started to shine through his parted curtains, he finally felt sleepy. Finally. He thought about smoking one last cigarette before falling asleep but then decided against it, and instead closed his eyes and went to sleep, in search of a better reality in his dreams.

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