Lazy Cheap Fat Bastard

“I fucking hate everybody…”

My first awakening thought that dreadful morning. There was nothing abnormal about me refusing to open my eyes. I fantasized about sleeping myself to death-- suddenly jealous of those people who got to be comatose. I decided that I was not going to move from my bed. I was doing nothing. It was my birthday. The 34th anniversary of my bullshit existence. Life sucked. I had been just fired from a crappy temp job, my landlord abruptly informed me my lease would end at the end of the month with no chance in hell of being renewed, and I was negative broke and single.


I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be reminded that they were heading towards death. I wasn’t a child. I knew there would be no mother trying to impress kids of mothers I never see in my adult life. I knew there would be no balloons, a cake with candles, and the forced “happy birthday” song. After, the anniversary of my birth was never really about me. It was always about everybody else but me. It was toasting to the fact I wasn’t aborted. It was about trying to impress teenagers when I was sixteen. When I was twenty one it was about alcohol poisoning. I wondered what I really celebrated everything year in October. I was no Jesus Christ. I didn’t come to save the world, probably the opposite.

My neighbor, the apartment below me hates me. She really hates me. She thinks my existence is some cruel joke to annoy her. I can’t breath without her getting upset. She thinks when I drop the remote control I do it on purpose. She thinks when I move furniture it always awakes her mid-afternoon naps. She thinks I am an alcoholic who sings really loud at inappropriate hours of the day. I give her the latter.

Funny how birthdays are not accepted by everyone. Only a certain few celebrate Hitler’s birthday but everybody gets off work on Martin Luther King’s birthday. We lie to almost every child that they are special, that their birthday is special, that is until that child grows up and proves he or she isn’t worth the placenta their casted after their birth. Life is cruel to the poor.

I didn’t realize what time it was. I had made what I thought was the adult decision not to go out. My last couple of birthdays somehow involved the cops. I thought it was safer for me to just stay home. I had had such a hard week. I’d gotten fired for no legit reason. I knew my lease was not going to be renewed. I was worried about homelessness or even worse, moving back to Texas. I just wanted to grab a bottle of rum and drink myself to sleep. I figure I pass out around midnight. I should’ve known better.

No one should drink alone. No one should drink after breakups or stock market crashes. No one should drink without bail money. It’s like asking for trouble. Life birthdays, no one gives a fuck if you got problems. All they care about is how those problems affect their own bullshit existence.

I heard talking. I heard someone yell my name followed by a knock on my door. I took my headphones off my ears. I couldn’t imagine who in the hell was calling my name. I went to the door. It was the cops. The bitch downstairs had called the cops.

“Do you know what time it is?” the police officer demanded like I was some horny teenager calling his daughter at booty call hours.
“I think it’s midnight.”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning.” I quickly looked at my hallway clock. It was five o’clock in the morning.
“Have you been drinking?” He seemed to laugh at his own question. I had been drink apparently for six hours. Time and worry had gotten away from me.
“Can I have your identification?”

I couldn’t believe that bitch from downstairs called the cops. I wondered why she didn’t come and knock on my door. She did that often. She did it when she needed a mattress carried or help with five pound bags of cat food.

“I see it’s your birthday in two days.”
“I think it is.”
“I’m not going to take you in. Just keep it down.”\
“Thank you.” I took my identification back. I suddenly felt weak in the knees. I wondered what would’ve happened if it wasn't a two days closer to my death. Going to jail on a Saturday meant horror. I wouldn’t had probably gotten out until that Tuesday. I would’ve been in jail because I existed too loud !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!