86'ed

Shuffling again in my ratty sneakers and sweaty day old clothes to the vacant bus stop, at least three people had noted my watch and asked me for the time.

Waiting in the empty glass cube for the bus, I got asked twice more.

The fake leather band made my wrist anxiously sticky and the back metal plate was getting nervously hot.

Then, the sixth person asked me for the time.

Peoples obsession with the figment of time, and how they feel the need to own it and control it so bad that they wear it makes me nauseous. What's the big deal what time it is? You're going to be doing the same shit you did yesterday and will be doing the same shit tomorrow. Get real.

Slowly unbuckling it, their eyes widened like starving dogs in anticipation of me giving the device to them.

Getting up on top of the bench, as if the spectators and I were playing "king of the hill", I lunged my fist downwards with all the force I had, in hopes of destroying the wretched thing.

I proceeded to jump on the watch.

And stomp on it

And stomp on it,

And stomp on it.

As if in bitter defiance, I could still hear its "tick... tick..." death rattle as it lay there; shards becoming pavement and pavement becoming shards. I threw it at a parked cab, only to watch it resiliently bounce off.

With one last stomp, miniscule springs and sprockets shot in to the air with the gusto of the fourth of july. I got down on my hands and knees and carefully put my ear up to the mess to make sure it was finished. Before I got to the pavement however, I noticed that there were only two numbers left-

8 and 6.

86

My entire life I've found comfort in the shit. Comfort in the shit. So comfortable in the shit, I've screwed my way out of everything that has ever been good for me because I don't understand any of it.

I've found comfort in the shit, and now I'm 86'ed from it.