Where The Ends Meet

Thursday, 5:34 am, August 3rd, 2010

Monochrome moods and sullen feelings fester and brew in this early morning hour. Sleep’s an afterthought, panic’s at the front of the room. Did I sign on for more than I assumed on this battleship? Kettle’s half full but it’s steamin’. Oh, get over yourself, Kurt. Work’s at 7, so carve the sleep from your eyes and put on your manhood, that Windsor knot around your neck. Esme’s not coming back. Get the coffee off the burner and let it burn, burn down my throat and stain my teeth. I’ve lost feeling in my toes, but I got a heart that’s strong, so come on, get going. Move along. God, my knees are killing me, move. Maybe I could go grab some menthols on my way to the office, but wait, no you can’t, you promised mom you wouldn’t. And you can’t even begin to think like that now that you’re a… wait a minute… analyst of quantitative research. Hemingway, what do you think? Am I a maverick yet?

To anyone’s curiosity, I’m Kurt Lochner, or Conrad, if we’re being formal. A man of muddled thought and half-hearted ambition. If you have any interest in these overwrought memoirs of self-pity, stay and watch. If not, then find some other blog to waste time on, watching other people’s lives instead of living your own. Who isn’t these days? Darth Vader, I am not, but a self-indulgent, pedantic depressive fits the bill. I went to school for statistical research because I was good at the math, nothing more. There was no money in writing jobs at the time, so I did what I was told and have a neat little job doing nothing now. Fun! 27 years of hope, dream, and ambition paid off. Slap an “I voted” sticker on that.

Who am I kidding? I’m only a rough, bipedal approximation of neuroses and burn out, getting my stomach pumped from the all-American diet they said was good for me. The bird in my hand flew away, the two in the bush are wanted for war crimes. They never said the city on the hill was also Detroit. Oh say it ain’t so, Joe, Barack. Tell me you’re going to make it all better somehow, with sugar on top, if you will. That’ll make it go down better. All I see are red parrots in the sky, foretelling my doom down the road to the fascist police state. Bloodstained teeth. Bloodstained teeth. It’s coming, I don’t know how, but it is.

Anyways, here’s Wonderwall. See you after work.

-Kurt