Shell of a Man

I'm not really the type to admit that I'm wrong. Not that I ever have much to be wrong about. My life is a pretty standard set of events that basically repeat day in and day out. There's not a lot of room for error here.

I grumbled to myself as I flung the sheet off, my alarm clock blaring in the background. I'm tired. Not sleepy. Truthfully, I woke up about 15 minutes ago and stared at the ceiling, already dreading the day before it even started.

 I'm just so tired; of waking up day in and day out to the same old dead ass job, that I get to in the same old broke-down car, that I can barely afford to keep running.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we force ourselves into a mundane set of routines that we can't stand? Why do we feel comfort in the monotony of every-day life; but feel misery at the same time? 

Get up. Take a piss. Brush your teeth. Take a shower. Go to work. Come home. Do dishes. Go to sleep. You eat and shit in the middle of a few of those steps, but otherwise it's the same.

I feel trapped in my life, but I'm too afraid to break out of the cage. I'm too afraid of what's waiting on the outside that I continue to pop these anti-depressants and choke down my cursing tongue, biting it, so that I don't piss off my boss - or even worse, a customer. Can't have me losing my job and getting kicked out of my shitty apartment, can we?

Corporate America: here we are! 

Slavery never left. The government just found a new way to package it; tie it up in a bow and act like we are free. What people don't seem to realize is that they give us just enough money to keep us coming back for more. It's no longer about race as much as it is about tiny cogs in a much bigger machine. We are all just pawns in this big greedy world. 

At least, that's what I keep telling myself...

That's what keeps me at this check-out counter with a forced smile and a voice that I purposely tune to a higher pitch to sound more pleasant. That's why I continue with the "How are you today?" bullshit. 

I hate to break it to you, but there is not one single person in this entire place that gives a shit about how you're doing. We want you to get in and get out. So please don't delve any deeper than "I'm fine," as a response. And if you do... don't go any further than asking me how I am in return. Please for the love of God, don't tell me your life story. 

Get in. Get out. 

"How you are you today?" a voice sounded, as a body approached. It was a pleasant enough voice; feminine and sweet. I always liked dealing with women more than men. 

I looked up, my rehearsed smile already etching across my face. "Doing well - and yourself?" I replied, my automatic customer-service voice so pronounced and eager. Get in. Get out. 

.... and then I saw her.

That was when I realized I might not be so right about everything and there may be a lot more room for error than I thought.