Following his long-standing tradition of avoiding feeling feelings and self-medicating using a hard but readily available and socially acceptable drug, local aid recipient Harold K. P. Trask finished his eighteenth beer of the day. “My life is awesome,” he said, ignoring fully the sadness held tightly by a heart broken once in junior high-school, his overstrained liver struggling to deal with the gallon and a half of fermented sugar water he’d just forced down his gullet. He stretched out on the worn cushions of his second-hand couch and patted his protruding belly in apparent satisfaction.
Surveying the frayed remnants of his second failed marriage by glancing briefly at a couple of framed photographs perched on a nearby shelving unit, he tried to decide between between ordering a pizza or frying up the rest of a refrigerated flank-steak that had gone gray a week earlier. “Better safe than sorry,” he said, punching his choices into a pizza ordering application loaded onto his mobile phone.
Standing up a half hour later to grab the slab of cheesy baked dough from the delivery person, he felt terribly dizzy, a state he attributed to moving too quickly caused in reality by severe malnutrition, acute vitamin deficiency, and decades of self-neglect. Craving protein to balance out the avalanche of carbohydrates he’d consumed in the previous period of wakefulness, Harold’s body compelled him to retrieve the flank-steak from the back of the fridge and fry it up with some butter. His second and third chakras suffocating behind overstrained intestines, their information lost in the static of chronic indigestion, he settled back into the couch, and smiled weakly.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
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