I stay at home. I call in sick, but notify my employer that I am able to work from home. I say-a little cold, I am touched by something that may or may not be a fever. I do not wish to bring it into the office.
I think of the other day when I told my coworker to call in sick to his other job, it was a beautiful day, I said, tell them you have an eye problem; you cannot see yourself at work. He did not laugh. I told him again because on the first chance he did not get the joke. He laughed as though he processed it as a joke. He was unimpressed, and underwhelmed.
Now I sit at my makeshift desk and take in the sun. The window straight ahead shoots sunrays onto the retro blue-checkered floor of the spacious one-bedroom apartment I inhabit, or cohabit. I am presently making tea to remedy my “little cold”.
Summer is almost over, it goes too fast, and school is almost upon us. Fall semester will be a change for the better. I am thoroughly excited. This is my life. I live.
Waking to shower, to look into the mirror. We think, what can we offer the world today? So much pressure. We piss, we take a shit, and we get dressed and on our way. Punching whatever clock, literal, or figuratively speaking, and we exist as we are told, under strict and remorseless guidance and control. Thank you-
And what did you do for yourself today?
Did you remember YOLO?
A friend, an artist, tells me I am a hater because I hate artists. I am an artist. I hate myself, and any attempts at art. Wait, maybe I am not like everyone else. I guess I am not an artist.
Don’t worry, you can steal my ideas and I’ll still think you are cool. I promise.
Notes from my pocket from work,
By Terry Scott Niebeling
So much money, effort, and time and the status quo has not changed.
Then everyone acts confused: What?! Why?! How?!
Moving out on Friday The 13th.
Day After Amber.
Egg Incident: Niche and Mandy.
Pharma Prozac I don’t care, yawn.
Triple Double Birthday.
Jokes aren’t funny, 2 minute later she is in tears laughing.
Advice: be nice.
Where social pariah define the status quo.
Where those who know just don’t.
We know though.
By Terry Scott Niebeling
How is shaving not attempted suicide?
Razor to neck, bring it across, and back, feel the blade drag a smooth clean pulled cut.
Clear skin to blemished; to rash, epidermis affected.
Men should walk out of the bathroom after as if we just got lucky.
Like, girls fuck me.
Society watches our beards grow, and they want them to go.
My Grandfather always had a fresh shave.
He would lather with horsehair in the bathroom mirror. He hid his fixing behind them, toiletries and such. He would slide them shut. I would watch very much.
He was a tough old man.
Do I look like a smooth baby’s ass from neck to forehead?
If not, I hope you aren’t offended.
An Old Spice guy myself, I really learned a lot.
I drove two and a half hours unshaven to see him on his last day.
Looking in the rearview I could see tears streaking down my face, red lines below my eyes.
He also had not shaven in weeks, and when I had seen him before the cut was uneven.
I reached the room, on that hot summer day. It was not at my Grandparent’s house.
Rather a hospice. I sat on a couch.
Family members tried to stop me, they told me it was bad.
I pushed passed.
He was nearly strapped to a bed. Hospital attire, wires.
He pushed himself up from where he lay.
He said, “I’m gonna give them hell.”
And that was the last thing we heard him say.
Behind the mirror his toiletries and razors wait gathering dust.
I wonder about him on his last shave.
I wonder what he thought and such.