5 minets without taking of your pants

Everything is like people.

- Why are you here, tell me?

- Yes, because why are you, actually. Get money, buy yourself some clothes, maybe a new phone, everything is like people, after all.

- Aren't you afraid?

- What's there to be afraid of? Once and at home.

You didn't see the swollen trees that surrounded them. The afternoon smoke was billowing in the sky, and they were still talking. They talked about a piece of time called life. The life of the fallen.

The ramshackle house, warming them with cold walls, was not so far away that they could crawl up to it at any convenient time. Put a cup on the table, get something field, look at the former owners, who were sitting with an empty look, but already completely on an emotionless face, which, in turn, the rats had not yet finished eating. It's just like people.

- Will you crawl or will we still have time to smoke?

- Do you have any left? Give me one.

The red light flashed with a bright flame, reflected in the eyes of a man holding onto two drops of nicotine, as if for something sacred from holy scripture.

There is no God here, he is alone and mad, omnipotent and helpless. You shouldn't get discouraged because of this, that's his will, right? These ruined green leaves on a gorgeous plain that was home to many local residents who also once believed.

- We're fucked, buddy. They're everywhere.

- You wanted it yourself. Your girlfriend wanted new shoes, new nails and a little change in her pocket to go to the bar with that married man.

- It doesn't matter, I love her. You won't hurt me anymore with this.

- You fool, you would have found someone already, but stopped sponsoring a w***e.

- Don't provoke me. It's not worth it.

- But how is it not worth it?

He finished his cigarette, got down on the ground and crawled to the house.

- Are you with me?

It was difficult to call this place home. The peeling paint from the hostess's makeup fell on the wooden floor covered with orange mastic; the windows faced the north of the other room, where the owner of the house was sitting in his favorite chair, not yet eaten by rats. It is good for the traveler who dared to take a piece of food from hungry rats and would die an easy death.

A still-living traveler and a friend went inside and walked around a huge sinkhole that was once a basement and serves as a punishment cell for naughty children and a paradise for deserters. The kitchen had its own aura of ease, a single chair replaced all the utensils and was a pillar of self-control and calm. There the traveler settled down.

- It's a hard day today, isn't it?

- I wouldn't say that. Is everything somehow calm, or what?

- Eh, what is my love doing now?

- She certainly doesn't think about you, entertaining his married man in a public toilet.

- Bite your tongue, or I'll blow your head off!

- Oh, but what did she get you so hooked on?

- U-u-u-u. She has a magical a*s.

- If you rub it, will the genie come out?

- You've been joking like that before. Think of something else.

- I don't even know. I can't think of anything to think about.

- Oh, come on. And I love her, I love her very much. I can't imagine how she is there? Does she think about me and does no one offend her?

- Your snot gives me a headache.

- Funny. At least something new.

- When will it end already… Do you think they'll save you?

- I don't know. I'm kind of used to what's going on. Maybe I'll even change my interlocutor.

- If so, then kindly throw my head to the body in the basement and don't touch it anymore.

- I don't know anything anymore. - the still living traveler replied to the head of a dead comrade standing in front of him.

 

A delicacy.

Well, of course everyone is sleeping and dreaming, isn't it? Any person, whether old or young, will dream, if the person is alive, of course. A person can remember his dream, or even forget it altogether, since the human brain is not a practical thing and completely unpredictable. The brain is the center, the support.

- You're getting so flustered talking about this s**t, Vic.

- Nothing is bullshit, but just the same valuable information for you, stupid.

- What is it?

- All you can do, Garven, is grab girls' asses and smile prettily, damn you.

- I am modest and completely harmless. Where else do you have beer hidden?

- In the kitchen. At the same time, take out the meat to defrost. On the bottom shelf in the freezer.

- And what kind of meat? - Garven was already standing with a beer.

- A delicacy. Didn't you get me a beer?

- Nope.

Vic went to the kitchen for another batch of beer while Garven tuned the antenna on a very old TV. The TV, also the one that your parents definitely had with buttons, the size of a bottle neck and pot-bellied like an unholy father.

- I took several at once. - Vic put the beer down on the floor and sat down next to him.

He had no furniture, a wooden box replaced a TV stand, a carpet replaced a blanket-mattress, and two pillows, or rather to say a semblance of pillows, were jackets stuffed with rags. Vic didn't complain about life, he was even happy enough. He worked as a watchman, he had enough to live on, and he simply did not see another existence because of interference in the form of ripples at the bottom of the bottle.

- I can't figure out where you got the beer, meat and everything else?

- I see opportunities and you don't, Garven. he smiled enigmatically.

- You live in a ten-square hut, even without windows, what are the possibilities?

- You're still too young.

- How does my youth affect my worldview?

- Well, you're young, therefore you're a fool. Vic shrugged.

- You're a genius. Please remind me why I'm here?

- You agreed to come in.

- And why?

- Because you were too drunk to go home.

Vic got up from the blanket, threw the empty bottle into the wall and left the dorm room into the communal kitchen. He was gone for a while, Garven managed to see all the patterns that Vic had imprinted in the corner of the room in the form of urine on the walls. Renaissance, no other way.

- It's not ready yet.

- What's not ready, Vic?

- Meat, what else?

- You live a terrible life, my friend.

- Me? Aren't you?

- Well, I have a higher education, a car, an apartment and alcoholism.

- Because of the latter, nothing of the above will happen.

Vic went back to the kitchen. Garven sat up and squatted down. There was still a window, but it was clogged with wooden boards. Garven patted his pockets, fumbled for his car keys, and was about to get out when Vic came in.

- Will you? -Vic held out a plate of poorly fried meat.

- I'm not eager, my friend.

- And I will.

- Why does it stink so much? What's it?

- It's the brain. The brain is the center, the support and the sweet delicacy.

- F**k, are you hunting dogs or something? Garven rolled down the wall to the floor.

- Why on dogs? No, of course, don't talk nonsense. I take the meat from those who no longer need it.

- I'll probably go. - Garven got up from the floor, took two bottles of beer and left the foul-smelling room, assuming that Vic was a very crappy cemetery caretaker.

The Joker

I remember my fun days in medical college. Then, when I first came there after the ninth grade, it was still a school, and we came up with our own funny jokes.

We are still children ourselves, but we are already trying to be adults, we observe the regime and try not to run outside often in order to have a smoke between couples. White coats, hats and replacement shoes. We are three guys for a women's group of future nurses. Me, the Cat and Sergey. I don't remember why I called him a Cat, he was kind of a decent Nikolai.

The first year was difficult, because we all had to eliminate school antics and climb the steps of medical knowledge, but there was no special desire. We were obsessed with women's skirts, get-togethers and finding out whether our diplomas would include the specialization "nurse".

I never considered myself a handsome man and was terrified of communicating not only with the female sex, but in general, in principle, but my new classmate Dasha did not think so. I honestly don't know what she could find in me, except for a long tongue and excessive swearing, but she was clearly sending me signs of attention. That's when I realized what it means to be really afraid. Everything seems to be fine, but I tried not to leave the toilet during recess.

The days went by, knowledge was not added, only more hassle with the rest of the world. I found out what Google is, I was forcibly registered in a newly appeared social network, and Dasha did not want to lag behind even after I told her about my beloved, fictional girl. She didn't believe it. She's right, I've embellished a lot of things in my life.

At the end of this horror of the first year, I could finally exhale and think with pleasure which freshmen would come to us next year. Blissful ignorance.

Back then, time was not dragging on, but was rushing like a whirlwind. I didn't even notice summer. I still haven't shed my foliage, haven't really kissed and have read only four books, all fantasy, by a Russian author. It was boring, but what to do. I ironed my robe, washed my hat and packed my briefcase. Back to honey.

Only years later, you yourself will be able to understand that the life you have lived has zero value for society, since society has long invented everything for you.

Second year, medical subjects and medical practice. I learned what love is and forever forgot about pleasant meetings with the female sex, as I saw the pleasure of cold beer. I slept on some pairs, and on some I simply did not go. It was more interesting for me to hang around the corridors and look out for someone with a nice face. Some teachers frankly could not stand me, I used to be rude, I was a stupid child who considered himself especially adult and independent, and only years later, I realized what a b*****d I was.

Having Jewish roots, I did not realize that I could offend or offend someone. My teacher Lilia Avraamovna thought the same, but did not let me down being a harmful old woman who taught religion, philosophy and sociology. I looked through my fingers at how she made remarks to me and asked me to get away from the girls in the group, so as not to interfere with them getting great knowledge from a great teacher. I had satisfactory grades and credits, and I didn't really bother to prove myself somehow, but one day I volunteered to make a report on subcultures in sociology.

Only years later…

Being a dirty b*****d, I talked about skinheads in front of the whole class, handing out printed symbols of the third Reich to everyone, and I gesticulated an Aryan greeting. Then, it seemed to me, it was fun or my next clowning, I could not think that I could really hurt someone with this, having my skeletons in the closet behind my back.

I still had to study for three years, drop out once, have a baby and finally finish medical school, but I didn't have time to apologize for the many jokes of my sick imagination.

 

With coming

To believe in something is always good and wonderful. The world needs people who will believe, no matter what. In God, Santa Claus, and Satan. It doesn't matter what, it matters how. With all my heart and soul.

As long as hope burns, there will be faith. Belief in the change taking place from the outside into the inner world. That's why we are burning with the desire to make a wish for ourselves with the help of the universe, the genie and the chimes.

The New Year has never kindled in me the passion of some inner anxiety about how I will celebrate it and how I will decorate my square meters. Put up a Christmas tree and fall asleep in a festive hat under the light of neighborhood fireworks.

This new, 23rd year was no exception. Back on the thirty-first I met my wife from work, we stopped by for cucumbers and already at home we started riveting salads for the holiday. She planned to go to her relatives, since I don't have much contact with my own, and I don't know where they are now, so the choice fell on my wife's relatives. I was just jumping with delight, not showing my true attitude, since I don't like companies for my own internal reasons.

It was ten o'clock, I warmed up my Logan, shook off the excess snow from him and drove thirty kilometers to the hostel where my wife's uncle lived. Shared toilet, bath and smoking room on the street. On the one hand, a person gets used to everything, so you can understand these people, they don't expect anything else, continuing to huddle in a common kitchen, frying common eggs in a single frying pan.

- Nikolai.

- Ivan. - I shook hands with my wife's uncle.

He seemed to me to be a simple man, in a New Year's, clean, white shirt and ceremonial rubber slippers. Well, we should have gone to the festive table in the room where a sofa and a TV with a blue light New Year's program were waiting for us.

I took a corner of the sofa, watching the children running from the room to the corridor, stealing snacks from the New Year's table and sharing them with the local dorm cat.

I'm not a sociable person and I'm the first to start a conversation very rarely, so I watched TV until I was chatted up for a couple of shots.

- Well, for the acquaintance. I suggested.

We downed the first fifty cognac and it seems even without interference. Then the second and third. I got excited, started chatting about something, answering questions that were asked to me, recognizing children in the dorm, as I often saw them at school.

- Where do you work now? Uncle persisted.

- I just came from the watch.

- I think you worked at school.

- And it happened, but I had to leave.

- And why?

- The salary of a state employee did not allow them to provide for my bad habits.

- And then back on watch?

I didn't have time to answer, the president was shown on TV, and the whole room began to listen to him attentively. I am one of them, but not out of deep interest or patriotism, but more out of relief at the lack of questions in my direction.

The speech was predictable, the war, citizens and freedom of speech. Do we believe that remains? Everything seems to be there, but there is always something missing. I know for sure that no war ended with something pleasant, if you pay attention to the post-war reports, but who am I to argue with anyone.

My relief and drunken thoughts did not last long, we opened the third bottle of cognac, and the girls uncorked the second bottle of champagne.

- Fill it up! I commanded.

I put more sushi on my plate, the remains of cutlets and pineapple salad, carefully avoiding the pineapples themselves. I don't understand the joke of adding this fruit to something meat, but cooks in a nightgown probably know better, and my job is to get money and hang shelves on the wall, so I grimaced and still ate this delicacy.

We finished off another bottle of cognac, and uncle decided to take us for a walk. Traditions. Traditions need to be honored, like going to the Christmas tree, for example, or drinking on New Year's Eve, the eighth of March and any day with a reason to search for meaning at the bottom of the next container. I'm not like that, I'm not looking for a reason. It's easier for me to recognize alcohol as my ally, rather than trying to get rid of the imaginary habit of getting drunk. Now I'm not talking about alcoholism, but rather about two evenings a month when I, without a twinge of conscience, my sizzle along with beer.

We went outside, froze and said goodbye to my uncle. My wife was very tired, as she worked a shift at work, noted the upcoming one there and followed it with us.

Fortunately, there was somewhere to go, I didn't have to go by car. Uncle wished us happiness and children, but I didn't promise him that, but really, I tried hard that night already on the first day of the new year.

Clown.

A habit is, of course, good if the habit is good. I'm used to being a clown, but not a circus, but a social one. I tried to be serious, to do some adult-serious things, but for thirty years next year, and I'm still a clown. I'm still writing, but I don't hope to get into Hollywood, since it stopped exciting me when I started staring at the neon signs of Megamarket in the former house of culture. There is enough horror everywhere if you stop perceiving this world with patterns that our parents stuffed into us.

For exactly three years I worked as a psychologist at school and it was fun in its own way. Seriousness, a sand-colored business suit, some decisions at pedagogical councils, consultations of children and parents. Is it a fairy tale?

Not a fairy tale. No one still knows what I was supposed to do at school. Neither the Ministry of Education, nor myself, actually. A lot of things can be written about the middle-aged school years, but perhaps not now, since there is absolutely no mood to write about it.

Even as a schoolboy myself, I didn't miss the opportunity to make a ridiculous joke or soak up some bullshit in class. Today's children are not like that, their fun is their smartphones. I don't mean the smartphones themselves now, but rather what they extract from these smartphones. Roughly speaking, talking heads decide for our children what to do and how to act. And oh..

Again, we are talking about serious things, but all this is easily crossed out, if you, the reader, see the picture, you will understand that another clown from the Internet underground is trying to get into serious things. And I'm not trying, unlike you, I've come to terms with my role and my fate.

Fate is also one of the most magnificent achievements of human thought. It was necessary to come up with the idea that something ephemeral, somehow and somehow, hefty subconsciously, affects you. It is incomprehensible to the mind from such concepts, I definitely do not understand this in humanity, and apparently not fate.

We human beings have come up with out-of-the-ordinary things for ourselves, we follow these things and are sure that there is no other truth. God, the devil, judgment and fate. Something is definitely not on this list, perhaps everything else.

Serious things are a vestige of a residual childhood. Childhood does not let us go to the grave, there are already their own rituals and rituals, a whole religion, procedures and their own tools. The last one, probably, is a white coat, which should also be serious. Like me or you.

Tuesday.

 

It sucks, of course, to wake up not at the time you're used to, but somehow I didn't care anymore, I wasn't surprised at anything anymore. All last month I got up at half past five, since everyone in my trailer was already waking up and doing their morning chores, the watch is not an easy thing, but for the sake of a hard coin, you can be patient, although subconsciously you had to endure with burning hatred for yourself, but I'm also used to this. But now I'm talking about this beautiful Monday.

After arriving home from the north, the first thing I did was to look for a new job, because I didn't want to sit completely without money, and it was somehow not at all convenient in front of my young wife. If I had my way, of course I would be sitting at home, writing my scribbles, but they won't pay for my apartment and food for my two cats. Alas.

There were a lot of interesting things on the sites, from the manager to the cleaner, but I could not find anything remote for myself, since leaving the house for me is still a torment and a curse, either because of mild autism, or because of sociopathy. Nevertheless, I have a education, but as no one knows, it is completely unnecessary, and in my specialty I shelved the work and diligently locked it with a key, even for two. I am a psychologist, but tired of fixing people, that's why I stopped at the vacancy of a computer master. I left my resume and blissfully waited for a call from the local manager.

I didn't have to wait long, he called just an hour later and invited me for an interview on Monday. Satisfied, I poured myself another coffee with a joke, diluted it with water and sat down to finish the "golden crate". I started writing it about five years ago, but somehow I couldn't sit down, because I wanted to stop with my writing. But fortunately Charlie Bukowski revived my interest. The most amazing thing is that I already began to read Bukowski after I squeezed out "Lies and Lust", and only this year I found out that I had been writing in the genre of dirty realism all the time.

Well, Monday. I had to wash my face like a human, comb my hair, dig out my Logan and go to the office. The road was so-so, I had to drive thirty kilometers. I was upset that I couldn't smoke in the car in any way, the windows were frozen solid and didn't want to open, and it was more expensive to torment the window lifter. "Simon Show", of course, it's cool that you can hear anything on the radio right now, but I'm either old-school, or I'm very critical of the present, that I'm used to hearing literate speech, and even on the radio, is it a fairy tale.

After parking my Logan, I smoked slowly, walked up to the building and went up to the second floor. I had to stand in line, because some youngsters were there too, I didn't find out what they needed, you never know. I went in next.

- On what issue? - the young man sitting at the table immediately asked me.

- Yes, according to the vacancy. A computer wizard. - without asking, I sat down on a chair and took off my jacket.

- Do you have any experience?

- Yes, I understand something in the software, I can reinstall Windows, clean the hardware itself, put new components. Yes, I also know a little Python.

- Python is, of course, good, but there is a different plan of work here. The client handles the problem of any equipment, you come and fix it.

- Well, I see.

- On payment here. -he handed me a piece of paper.

I diligently pretended to understand all these percentages, held them in my hands for five minutes and gave them back to him, Marat.

- I'm Marat. - Marat introduced himself.

- Ivan. I smiled at him.

- Is everything clear?

- I see.

- Can you come out tomorrow?

- I'll get out.

I was about to get up and hold out my claw to him, but he was taken aback and also got up.

- I will write to our chief master, Arthur, he will contact you tomorrow.

I nodded my head, shook his soft tentacle, once again looked at his beard resembling the hairy part of my unshaven, ahem, groin, and went home to wait for the next day.

After telling my wife about my job application, I stopped by her place of work, took two cakes from a local bakery, gave them to her and went home to drink coffee and watch cuts on YouTube of one of my favorite cartoon shows.

Tuesday.

It was not so difficult to wake up, I was charged for a fruitful working day and came up with customer requests in my head, which I can handle so easily. Wash, comb your hair, take your spouse to work, and go to the local shopping center yourself, since you don't want to burn gasoline once again.

Thirty kilometers to the city again, frozen glass and frozen feet again, the stove has been tormenting my head for the second day. After kissing my wife goodbye, I drove cheerfully to the shopping center, not even noticing rudeness from taxi drivers.

Leaving the car in the parking lot, I charged inside to wait for a call from Arthur, the computer wizard. I bought myself a coffee machine, found myself a more comfortable bench and sat down to finish reading Belyanin's The Thief of Baghdad. I don't like this anymore, but I wanted to remember everything I read as a child, to be nostalgic before sitting down for Selina.

The coffee was terrible, Belyanin predictably humorous, but there were no options, I had to wait for the call.

I walked around the shopping center, watched with envy how others were busy with something, and I loitered like a restless one. There wasn't much money left, but there was enough for another cup of coffee. I decided to drink it already in the car, as I was very familiar with everyone I had been walking in front of for an hour and a half.

Arthur called, it was half past eleven in the morning. I even cheered up from what he told me. Today I will go with him to my first order, he will tell me the time and place. I waited.

Out of boredom, having torn off all the ice on the windows, I still managed to lower the window and smoke already in the car, blissfully washing down nicotine with filthy coffee. I finished reading Belyanin, I haven't started a new book yet, waiting for a call from Arthur. It was half past one. I went for another glass of coffee and stayed at the shopping center. I sat, drank and watched others work.

I was already quite uneasy. I managed to go to my wife, chat with her, drive around the city, burn gas, damn it. I was so bored of sitting in the car, it was useless to scroll through the tape on social networks, that I decided to go to Marat's office and to his scrotal beard, just to say hello.

There were no youngsters in the corridor, the door was closed. But I'm not cultured, I opened the door and walked in. Marat was not alone, there was some kind of wet p***y sitting with him and doing something at his laptop.

- Hi, - I turned to him, - I was nearby. I stopped by to say hello.

- On what issue? - this jerk started looking for the fifth corner again.

- I'm telling you, I was nearby, stopped by to say hello. I sat down on the chair next to him.

- On what issue? - he wouldn't let up.

- I got a job as a master for you... - I started chewing him.

The wet p***y looked at me like I was s**t.

- And... and Arthur didn't call you? - it got to him.

- I called about two hours ago. - I began to drill my gaze into the wetness.

- Let me write to him, maybe he forgot.

- Come on. I shifted my gaze to him.

- Well, that's it, I wrote, he says that he will be free at three or four o'clock.

- Well, great. - I answered and there was a pause in the air.

I didn't want to leave on principle, but these amorphous ones would never have driven me, so I left first, without shaking his hand again.

After leaving the office parking lot, I called my wife and outlined the whole situation. She called me to her store, because there's nothing for me to hang around anywhere and in general, what the hell am I driving around doing nothing? It was half past two on the clock.

I stood near her counter and confidently looked at the women's perfume, showing with all my appearance that I knew something about it.

- Hey, bro. - something huge with the smell of fumes addressed me.

- Hi, - I held out my hand to say hello, - what can I do?

- Are you drinking? - it took pity on my hand with its claw with a protruding little finger.

- I? Yes, I stretched out, looking at my smiling wife.

- Do you smoke? Give me fire.

- Yes, I don't smoke.

- I'm Alexander!

- Ivan. - I kept trying to pull my hand out of the vice.

- Let's call the w****s? - he whispered it in my ear.

- Come on, - I say to him in the same ear, wait for me outside for five minutes, I'll be right out.

- Come on. He staggered away.

- Kick-a*s, you have visitors here. -I went to my wife's window.

- And there are such things. What's with the job?

- I'm waiting…

- Well, where are you? -  Alexander returned to the store.

- Give me five minutes, San. - I didn't turn to him.

- Got it. he went outside again.

- Where's the emergency exit?

My wife explained to me, and I safely retreated, avoiding a conversation with Alexander. I got to the car and drove back to the shopping center. It was half past four on the clock.

As soon as I got to the parking lot of the shopping center, my wife called me and asked me to pick her up from work, as she was released early today. I drove back again.

- Arthur didn't call?

- No.

- Let's go to the shopping center, we need to go to the Market.

- Well, let's go. -I answered and went to the shopping center for the seventh time today Tuesday.

Already in the Market, at six in the evening, Arthur called me and asked me if I could go with him to order for half past eight in the evening. What to do, I had to agree.

After taking my wife home, having eaten something for the first time in a day, I immediately drove back to the city, again these thirty kilometers.

I called Arthur, and we met at the place in front of our client's house. He rang the intercom.

- Master Sergey. - he said at the door and they opened it for us.

We went up to the third floor.

- I'm with an intern. - he reported to the immensely obese landlord of the apartment and we went inside.

It was half past ten on the clock.

- Is that how you make money? I asked him coming out of the entrance to the street.

- Yes. Today there was another order in the morning, quite fat. - he smiled.

- Yeah. What's for tomorrow?

- I don't know, I need to talk to Marat, what he will say. Can you give me a lift to the store?

- Let's go.

Already at home, lying with my sleeping wife next to me, I kept thinking that we hadn't made a computer, how these household members stared at my two tattoo sleeves with the whole family, and what a scribe this Tuesday was.

Looking ahead, I will say that Arthur didn't call me anymore, Marat didn't either, but I still printed out my trunk with a higher education diploma and threw my resume to a local school. Again. But I just left school.

Discussion.

I could, of course, call it something other than "full out", but alas, censorship is censorship.

 

It wasn't that unusual, no, I'm used to it, but it happened just the same suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a warm July day and my head didn't get too hot sitting in the hall at the computer. I was alone then, and I didn't like to take guests to my house at all.

 

I flipped through site after site, interrupting myself on social networks in anticipation of a miracle of a wonderful response from a beautiful lady, whom I had been trying so hard to get since school years. She was silent, and I was not so much crammed into communication. He clicked on her reactions to new photos, commented on something - in general, he showed social skills in all its glory of the twenty-first, and in compatibility, the information age.

 

Nothing, absolutely nothing foreshadowed trouble, when suddenly I heard a quiet piercing voice behind me and, out of surprise, even jumped on my stool.

 

- Are you still sitting at the monitor? The shrill voice transformed into an explicit sentence.

 

- Yes, I'm sitting. I began uncertainly, without turning around.

 

- Mmm. And why?

 

- Just killing time. I turned around.

 

Turning around, I saw a cat sitting on the floor in my room. He didn't look like any particular cat from my memories or even fantasies, but he definitely looked like a cat. The creature, or something else, was staring at me with completely human eyes.

 

- What are you doing with your life, Mark? - it spoke without opening its mouth.

 

- I'm not doing anything. I'm sitting here. - I answered in a trembling voice.

 

-You're not going anywhere, Mark. Your existence is meaningless and monotonous, like the simplest germ of the idea of a monthly person.

 

- I don't understand. - I tried to look him in the eye.

 

- Living day after day, you have forgotten the truth of life, Mark. the creature wouldn't let up.

 

- What do you want from me? - I dared to speak in full voice.

 

- Explanations. Nothing small or big.

 

The creature began to lick its paws the way an ordinary cat would.

 

- What are you? - I was trying to find a pack of cigarettes on my desk.

 

- What nonsense is this, Mark? I'm a Cat.

 

- But you can't be a cat, you're a talker, there are no such things!

 

- If something can tell you something, can't it exist, Mark? What is the logic? I am a living being with my own thoughts, goals and ideas. I can strive for something or want something. Doesn't that mean living? - the creature lay down on the floor and curled up into a ball.

 

- I'm probably going crazy.

 

- Only chamber meditators judge by certainty, Mark. If you can evaluate yourself and be critical of any situation, even this one, then you probably won't go crazy. the creature stretched on the floor.

 

- This is absurd.

 

- The absurdity is what you live by, Mark. You are the program of the ideas of those who want to make you think that you are alive, Mark. You don't inhale every second of your existence, you consume oxygen. You don't achieve your goals, you act reflexively. You force yourself to think that you are alive, but you continue to contemplate the emptiness of existence without action. It's time to change. The creature stood up on its hind legs and jumped onto Mark's lap.

 

- It's time to change. - Mark repeated and wrote to the girl from whom he was waiting for the first step.

The world of people.

- Oh, yes, why not? Let's all hold hands together and dance around a campfire of daisies for the glory of hipness.

Jerry was always a little on edge when he was eating, drinking, or just staring at the ceiling.

 

-Oh, yes, Margaret, of course I'll take the damn cookies and stuff them all in my mouth. Let these damn crumbs dig into my back when I lie down on the bed. Come on, bring that damn piece of meat, damn it!

 

- Yes, Jerry, I'm already bringing you your breakfast.

 

He slammed his fist on the table with such force that he accidentally dropped the old pepper shaker.

 

- A-a-a-a, the evil-tormented peppercorn, why is she standing here, huh? Still can't forget your mom, Marge?

 

- No, Geri, that's not why. This is the only pepper pot in this house.

 

He ignored his wife's words and bit into a huge piece of meat lying on a plate. Oh, no, gentlemen. No! Cutlery was not invented for Jerry.

 

He held this piece of meat in his hands, tearing it with his teeth. All the juice from the badly fried steak splashed and oozed right onto his shirt.

 

- Damn it, Margaret! - Jerry got up from his chair, - look what you did with my clothes!

 

- Geri, it's not me, it's all yours...

 

She did not have time to finish, as she immediately recoiled from a strong blow with the back of her husband's hand. Jerry stood over her with trembling hands and a red face. He was so angry that he didn't even feel how he smashed his palm against her teeth.

 

Margaret could not stand on her feet and fell to the floor. She was a frail woman with refined features and her pale, aristocratic skin took on a scarlet hue flowing from the lips of this weak woman.

 

- You're going to cross me again, b***h!

 

- Yes, Jerry, I'm sorry.

 

- I went to work, clean up after yourself. - he said, picking up the same piece of meat.

 

Obediently, without question, she reached for a rag. She knew that happiness would come sooner or later, no matter what.

 

Margaret, having cleaned the dorm room in which they lived, finally sat down in her cherished chair and stretched out blissfully. A whole day of cleaning and cooking, and now it's evening again. Jerry will come again, he will be angry again and drag him to bed again.

 

The lock mechanism clicked, the door opened and Jerry came in. He was holding a paper bag in his hands.

 

- Dinner's on the table, Jerry.

 

- I see it without you. Take this. he handed her the package.

 

- What's there? Margaret looked inside.

 

Jerry frowned and sat down at the table without undressing, pulled a plate towards him.

 

- Something new. - he replied and began to eat dinner.

 

- Then I'll get dressed right away.

 

- Yes, come on.

 

He finished his dinner, undressed and came to her bed. In their bed, which has already seen the sights, all torn up and eaten by rats.

 

- Are you ready?

 

- Yes, damn you, come on.

 

 

The world of people is clear and simple if you take a good look and try to figure everything out. Only a humiliated person will spend his whole life trying to overcome this pain by humiliating others, but at the same time partially overcome the desire to punish himself by bringing a new strap-on in a paper bag, since the old one has worn off to the ground.

Good boy.

Why can't you be one hundred and ten percent sure of something you're not f*****g sure of? After all, life is just like that, without any hidden trick. Timmy thought exactly that when he was sitting in his room once again and picking his nose, studying the contents of it.

 

Timmy was a good boy. I never contradicted my parents or, God forbid, swore with anyone. No. Timmy had always been a good boy, but he couldn't understand why his mother was so unhappy with him.

 

Taking out the contents of his inexhaustible treasure chest, little Timmy began to listen to the conversations behind the wall. Parents were swearing too much today. He came closer to the wall and pressed his ear to it.

 

- How much more can this be tolerated, explain to me? a man's voice shouted.

 

- He's your son too!

 

- My son! Mine! So why can't I do something about it then? Explain to me!

 

- What do you want to do, Ben? Hasn't he suffered enough?

 

- Have you suffered enough? HE? He lives like a f*****g prince. All he does is consume.

 

-He's our son, Ben.

 

- That's exactly because of such words, it turned out that way, Elena. It's all because of you and your overprotection.

 

Timmy could not make out anything further, as his mother began to scream through tears and cry. Sobbing, she tried to explain something very important to Timmy's father, but she couldn't because of another tantrum.

 

Timmy pouted, as he was very sad that he could no longer eavesdrop on his parents. He sat against the wall for a while longer, smeared his treasure on the wallpaper and headed to the other end of the room. There were toys there. He understood that he was old enough to play soldiers or build towers out of lego, but something unknown to him, and pulled to pick up another plastic toy.

 

Timmy smiled, looking at the next colorful character in his hands, which he begged from his mother last Sunday when they went to church. He liked the church, but the road to it was not a joy to him. He constantly noticed the gaze of people passing by on himself and on his mother, who was holding his hand. People are strange.

 

Timmy suddenly heard loud and heavy footsteps outside his room. Frightened, he wanted to crawl under his bed, but he couldn't. Timmy was a big boy.

 

His mother came into the room. All in tears, she went to her child and hugged him. Her gentle, motherly hands were a soothing panacea for Timmy. He loved his mother's hugs so much that he did not even notice how over time the hands of his beloved woman became covered with wrinkles, and the skin gradually began to scratch. Poor Timmy did not know and did not understand with his childish, completely stupid consciousness that he was stuck in this aging body of an adult.

 

 

 

Coffee.

There are different types of coffee  black, green, with different flavors, instant, there is even coffee in the form of capsules. Many people love this taste or the energy that this drink gives, but not many people know how difficult it can be to do without it, without coffee.

There's a guy, let's call him Joe. He really likes to drink coffee. Very much. He will even be ready to kill you for this wonderful drink if you try to take it away from him. Is it a joke if I say that I once tried to do it myself, but of course it didn't work out for me. Joe likes to drink coffee and will be ready for any situation.

Joe was still very young when he first tasted coffee. He was about twelve years old, no more. He told me that his father once treated him. Joe loves his father, rather loved his father. His addiction can only be compared with the use of something more provocative, but not less. Joe has told me many times that he has no addiction and that I am greatly exaggerating when I tell him about his addiction.

Joe spent a lot of money to take at least one more sip of this drink, but he could not for a moment feel the same taste and aroma that was in his father's mug that day when Joe was twelve. Joe loved his father. He repeated it very often. He also said that he would go to great lengths just to feel the same taste. Poor Joe was so unhappy that he decided to have coffee with his father again.

Poor Joe complained to me about the poor conditions in his cell when we were out for a walk. He told me that he almost managed to talk to his father, but external circumstances were stronger. I tried to cheer him up, but what could I do but prescribe him more antipsychotics to somehow calm Joe's thoughts about his late father.

MOTHER

The time on the clock was already late, baby Lucy was lying in her crib and could not find the right and comfortable position for herself. She looked at her watch and counted down every second until her father arrived. Today he is late at work and will probably come quite tired. It's so good that little Lucy managed to cook dinner, clean up the apartment and go to bed on her own.

The loud clatter of the clockwork prevented her from falling asleep, the uncomfortable and crumbly bed only aggravated the situation, but Lucy persistently caught up with thoughts of sleep, because she knew that she would get very much from her father if she did not fall asleep in time. She didn't have many thoughts, but she carefully tried to think through and imagine each of them in her subconscious. She asked herself what would happen today? Will the father come alone or again with a new mom? Or maybe his friends will come, and Uncle Charlie?

Lucy liked Uncle Charlie, he always brought her something when they played silent. Her father loved him too, but somehow, in her own adult way, Lucy couldn't understand it. My father didn't talk much about adult life at all, sometimes he only described in a nutshell what a good wife and mother should do.

Lucy pushed these thoughts away, because she didn't want to remember how her father cursed and screamed. Lucy liked to think about what would happen tomorrow, then the day after tomorrow, and so on. The future attracted her very much with its charm and magically unexplored miracle. Anything can happen tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be another new year or Easter, or maybe money will fall from the sky and the father will finally be happy, and will not shout and be angry at Lucy.

She adjusted the blanket and turned sideways to see the door. Gently, barely touching, she pulled a thread from the patch on the chest of her dress and again, reflexively, thought about her father. And what if he comes sad again and cries, like the time when he had a fight with his new mom. What if he forgets to buy his cigarettes again and gets very angry. Tomorrow would come sooner.

A rattle in the keyhole brought Lucy back from her thoughts to her bed, she got ready. The father entered his and Lucy's small, one-room apartment. She held her breath, but she saw Uncle Charlie and happily jumped off the bed and ran to hug him. The father was sad today, and taking money from his friend, wiping his tears, he said:

- You're Charlie's mom today.

 

Neighbour

People's actions are the best translator of their thoughts.

John Locke.

There is still water in the kettle, it remains only to turn it on. Mickey wakes up early so that he can get to his office in time for his favorite job, which he has been dreaming about so much for a long time. Another tea bag falls into a cup that should contain coffee, but, unfortunately, tea has been there for a week.

Mickey drinks this tea, checks his watch, presses the button on his keychain to start the car and puts the cup on the table. He is depressed, because he understands perfectly well that he will not last so long from great fatigue, and even this new neighbor in his parking space in the underground parking lot of the office. Why is this scoundrel parking the car next to Mickey?

An hour's drive on a half-empty road to the office, but it's worth it, right? The dream job is to sit on a chair for eleven hours looking at the monitor. Mickey understands this perfectly. He understands that miracles do not happen, so he goes to his office to work, where this damn car is already standing in the underground parking lot, which is adjacent to Mickey's parking space.

It was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and the working day, apparently, had just begun, so Mickey thought, listening to every word of his supervisor at the next meeting. Not a single cup of coffee in the meeting room, you could have been generous, right? How terrible it is to realize that the day has just begun.

The nondescript faces of Mickey's colleagues were a symbol of his stability. As long as he sees these faces, he's at work, which means there's every chance of a happy future, right?

Another start of the day, a teapot, a mug, a keychain, a damn occupied parking space. Today the colleagues were in high spirits, it was Friday. Friday is always good, finally you can take a break from the working week for something fun and joyful, unlike work. You can even invite someone to your place, for example, that lovely intern over there.

She did not agree, but asked for a ride home at the end of the working day. She explained this by going to work on Saturday. It's terrible, she won't be able to rest properly on Friday, right?

At the end of the working day, the neighboring car was still standing in the underground parking lot, but the owner was not there. Mickey tried to find out something from the intern, but it was useless. She barely knew a few people in the office, what kind of cars were there.

Mickey was surprised by his own bravery when he decided to follow this neighbor's car, but every day, the car was empty. Mickey would have liked to be disappointed, but he couldn't, because he began to notice that the next car in the underground parking lot could have been opened, since its front door was not tightly pressed. Mickey opened this door. Mickey got in and slammed the door behind him. He smiled, because he had finally solved the riddle, but was completely confused by the fact that now he could not open the door from the inside and get out to his car, which another was getting into. The other Mickey.

Author's Note

Here is a collection of dirty stories that my life is based on. I know there are a lot of ambiguities, but still...