Human and Inhuman

They've liberated Igor's ipod and headsets.

It's almost hard to watch.
I've come to the Box early, to do some laundry, but when I sit down on the edge of my bed, I'm just unwilling to. More on this later. But as I sit, and stare at Igor across the room from me, reclining on his bed, his laptop in his lap, I dwell on what is wrong with me. My feet are beginning to stink. Not up to the Skek stink yet, but of smelly shoes. Like basketball player's feet. Tonight I'm going to take that shower.

Igor is in motion now, moving here and there, his hands roaming about his headboard, going under folded clothes, rifling through his drawers, going through his bags. He is meticulous and careful, sectioning off his little area and probing, reaching, questing. His hands are under his sheets, in the drawers under his bed, lifting shirts and slacks, under the headboard. He does it in a circuit once, then twice. Now he begins mumbling.

"My Ipod and headsets are gone." He continues to search. "I had them right here," he pats a stack of clothes on the headboard. "They were right here." Out in the open, I ask. "I forgot them here. I just left this morning and left them there." In the open, Igor? I ask again, more to impress upon him the uselessness of a further search. He stops, looks around, exasperated. "I know I left them here." He turns around and sits down on the edge o f his bed. "Maybe I left it at Paragon." He reaches for his cellphone and calls the store. After a few minutes he is speaking to the manager, the salespeople, the cashiers. No one has seen an Ipod or headsets. He sits on the edge of his bed in both shock and dejection. "That's alright," he sighs. "That's alright, I'll just go out and get a new one." I shake my head, like I said, it's almost too hard to watch someone lose something through theft. I think of my face when I walk in one day and find my laptop stolen. Never may that happen. Anything left alone and out in the open is asking for it to fly off to parts unknown.

He grabs his gear, hoisting it on his back and heads for the door. I watch him leave.

I am tired. I spent the entire day in Think Coffee, dissipating. I emailed friends and best of all, I blasted through almost the entire penultimate episode of the screenplay. I blew right past my writer's block, and only stopped when I could no longer move my fingers. I wanted to jump up and holler, throw confetti in the faces of people in the establishment, pull down my pants and jump up and down in place, letting my penis flop up and down like a mud flap. I was feeling good to get it out of me. I embraced the exorcism and let it all go. Now comes the conclusion. Before I was heading to the end, NOW this is the end. One episode to go. And I will bring it to a fiery conclusion just the way that I wanted to.

The writer's block scene was a little unconventional, but I loved it still. It ended the way that I wanted it to. That's all that really counts. This was a day well spent.

Now I sit on the edge of my bed, wondering what is the matter with me. I don't want to take care of myself any. I have clothes to wash, I need a shower, I should brush my teeth. I am coming apart, and I don't care. This is a form of self hatred, self loathing. I'm trying to pull myself together again health wise, but letting myself go in other areas. As if I don't have the strength to keep all aspects of my life up at the same time.

I think I am weary. World weary. This world around me is a tax on my very soul. I see it eat people up, like poor Igor, and it bothers me. I walk in the bathroom to find toilets filled and stopped up with shit and toilet paper. Someone has busted the papertowel dispenser from the wall, leaving it leaning broken in the corner. It's stuff like this. The 'I don't care' attitude. The thinking that someone owes Skeksies something. That everything should be free, even the toleration of them. I wonder if I am the same. If I'm under the mistaken assumption that the world owes me something other than the royal ass whipping that I have been receiving.

Am I depressed over this?

Is depression finally making me physically ill? Is it coming out in my personal care, like it did to so many a skek before me? What? Now I've waited to end up in a shelter before I turn into a skeksie? What the fuck is going on here?

I'm disgusted with myself and I know it. I will get a grip. I will straighten things out. Maybe not tonight, but I will. That's just the way that I am. A slow moving but deliberate animal. I take a fall pretty easy. I don't bruise well, I'm no grape. I don't wear my organs inside out. I'm tougher than leather. I've busted ass and had my ass busted. I'm prone to error, I love too easily.

I guess I'm just human in an inhuman environment. Stress happens.

Angel is now walking about, ranting after learning that Igor's Ipod has gone missing. HE knows who stole it. He marches back and forth in the Dorm, pointing over and over again at a singular bed. Paul the Stooge. Angel goes about, making his case. His argument sounds reasonable. Personally, I think Kevin did it. That boy is a thief. But I can't help but take angels admonitions to heart. Wherever Paul the Stooge is, stuff turns up missing.

A quiet posse is formed. Everyone will keep an eye out for Paul the Stooge. He has been marked a thief. A fate worse than death here in the Dorm. Untrustworthy.

A lynch mob of sorts. An inhuman thing in an inhuman environment.

I've got to wash my clothes.

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