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Short story: ‘Life in a mouse wheel’

It was seven in the morning. I had been snoozing too long already as it is. After telling myself to get up I crawled out of the bed and walked like a zombie to the bathroom. My mouth tasted like cat piss. As I was brushing my teeth I thought of those little fur-balls. I had always liked them, even would have taken one if I would not be so damn allergic to nearly all things that are furry. Cats do things their way, that’s what I like about them. They’re smart animals, unlike dogs who constantly remind me of mentally handicapped children. If you die in your apartment, your dog will just lie next to you and die on hunger. A dog being that loyal to its master is nice of course, but I don’t think the master,in his or her current situation, really cares about the dog anymore. Cats on the other hand ‘get’ this.Instead wasting its own life it will just either pick the highway or start eating the master’s corpse to sustain itself. At times I wished I was a cat.

I sat in front of my computer with a large mug of coffee I had just prepared for myself. Over the years I had become so addicted to caffeine that it was next to impossible for me to do anything during the day before having my usual breakfast. Like every other morning I logged into Facebook to check out today’s ‘news’. Nothing out of the ordinary had apparently happened while I was sleeping. “Same shit, different day,” I sighed and turned the monitor off. It was time to go to work.

It had snowed last night so I had to dig my car out of the white blanket that was now covering it. I had noticed that cleaning one’s car from snow was done fastest the way of doing it counter-clockwise. I started with the window of the driver and moved to the backseat window; then the trunk, and from there to the other side of the car. The windshield would be better to leave the last, because it always took the most time to scrape the ice off. Once I finally got inside my car I turned on the radio. “Same shit, different day,” I thought to myself. Same old chart hits that I had heard multiple times just yesterday were once again presented as the coolest new shit out there. I turned the radio off and started whistling Super Mario tune instead. It was still better music than most of the crap today’s kids were listening to. I had a confidence in myself, that if I would have really wanted to, I could have made a hip hop song as well as any of the so called contemporary artists. In the end most of the songs just followed the same four-beat loop (made with a computer) with some wannabe gangsta rhyming incoherent words to the microphone.

I had to park my car further from the office because some jerk with a brand new Mercedes had taken my usual spot. It was a public parking lot but for some reason I enjoyed having my car at the same place as usually did. I got up to the second floor where the office was and checked myself in. I was a bit late but no one seemed to care. There rarely was anyone to care in the first place. Every morning was more or less the same in the sense that I would be the second arriving to the office. The other guy was a co-worker of mine, whose job relied on the very idea of him being there at 8am sharp. He was always there the first, but he was also the first one to leave. For me it was fully understandable, considering what his job was. Every day this guy would answer the phone and guide people, with no skills in current day technology, through the simple functions of computers. Not a day passed by when he wouldn’t have to explain someone that computers need to be plugged into the power socket before they can start up.

“Morning. How was your weekend?” he asked me when I walked to the room.

“Same shit, different day,” I replied. “Want some coffee?”

While I was preparing coffee for both of us in the kitchen area my boss walked in. He always looked the same when he came to the office. It was his business so I guess it was necessary for him to wear a suit every day. None of the other ones at the office did, though. He was quite the controversial person, or at least that’s what I always thought of him. At one moment he could talk to me very casually, mostly about music, and I enjoyed having this chatters with him most of the time. But on other occasions he turned his ‘boss’ mode on and suddenly became a total prick. I had developed a skill in seeing it from his face in the morning which day it would be: a boss-day, or a casual, good-guy day. It seemed that this daywould be a boss-day.

Published inCreative Writing

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