It starts well for a Sunday. Like, it is not a Sunday at all. It's nine-something AM and big grey clouds have invaded the sky, but they look friendly. The air is cool. Rain is coming. It smells spring and sun, bush fires and wet dirt. It is one of those cool days. I haven't slept for the last two days. I did not shit either. Did not eat anything. I just drank, quietly intoxicated myself for the sake of it. I am truly and perfectly alone in my small apartment—no friend left and my wife had divorced me some time ago. She took the kids away from me. I am out of work—two days ago I lost my job in which I never had any interest. I am a failure, a good-for-nothing; but I feel great. I am drunk, but I feel really great. I am achieving something, and, although I don't know if I am feeling great because I am a failure or the other way around, I don't care—knowing does not mean a thing; it's all about feeling, and feeling good makes the difference; it makes me feel alive.
I stand up. There is some wine left in the glass. I sip it. I try to get up, but my body weighs tons. My legs are weak; I never had strong limbs. My mother never had a strong body, nor my father, and my brother had a record of broken arms and legs. I fall down on the couch—old stuff. I try again and it works better; it is always better the second time. I stagger to the window. I open it. There is only one car in the parking lot. The homeless shits who frequent the place are quiet. They do not move—probably sleeping. I shout feebly, "I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD." Nothing happens. I hate the bastards. All of them. I despise them, the worst failures in the world. Defeated losers. I go back to the couch, lay down, and say again, "I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD." My world, a world in which no one has a right to come it. A world in which I am the only one alive. They are all dead. My kindgom is alive. It vibrates with life.
I switch the TV on and put a DVD in the DVD player. It is one of the movies I had picked up just before I was fired. The boss fired me because I am a chickenshit (his words) and said that he'd rather do the job himself than let me—he stopped. "PLEASE!" I had pleaded. I can be dumb sometimes. I wanted to express that I felt sorry. He raised his hands, "Don't. No apologies. No reasons. You're WRONG." Exactly what my wife kept saying to our children. "HE is WRONG. Don't trust him." She did not like me either. I am as right as any one of the others and it makes a hell of a difference when people don't like you. They don't even know what they want you to do. They just complain and hate you. You can do your job, be a good husband, and they don't care. They are prejudiced bastards. I think the same of people who do like you: bastards, too.
