The Book of Life

 

(Life's tough, but God has a plan.)

On Friday night, I had to go to my second job. I work in a study room, and my main purpose is to sell overpriced chips and soda to exhausted high school students. My employer lets me watch movies on my laptop during my downtime. Basically, I’m just an overseer who keeps his eyes open for bad behavior.

Anyway, I gave The Pope’s Exorcist a try. It stars Russell Crowe as an Italian priest who drives out demons. The Pope’s Exorcist has to be one of the worst films ever made in the history of Hollywood. It’s literally that bad. But its failure gave me brief hope for my novel The Demon in the Doll. I rushed over to Amazon to see if I had sold any copies of my tome. The final result? Nothing. I can’t even seem to give the fucking thing away for free. Nobody is the least bit interested.

I eventually met Rice-Boy Larry in the chicken restaurant at 10:15 p.m. We ordered fried bird and a pitcher of beer. It’s our Friday-night ritual.

He said, “I got a sixty on a biology test.”

I sighed heavily. “A sixty? That’s very disappointing news.”

“Yeah, but it was a hard exam. The class average was only forty.”

“You can spin it any way you desire. Yet I could find a meth head living in the gutter, and he could score a sixty on the exact same test in spite of his chemically altered brainwaves.”

“Well, he must be an extremely smart drug addict. Because a sixty was the best I could muster, and I’m not some fucking retard.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Fair enough.”

Larry’s birth was an accident. I was too old to be a good father by the time he came out of my wife’s vagina. Therefore, I no longer have the energy to properly break his balls over bad grades. I fear that I’m nothing more than an old eunuch who is perpetually exhausted. But what’s a boy to do? It happens to the best of us.

I woke up Saturday at 8 a.m. with a huge headache. Once again, I had enjoyed the beer a little too much.

I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

She said, “You look rough.”

I nodded. “I drank a lot of alcohol last night. It’s my Friday-night ritual. It’ll end up killing me.”

“How much did you have?”

“A pitcher of beer.”

“Why not keep it down to a glass or two?”

I smiled at her. “That would make too much sense.”

“So what are you going to do this afternoon when you finally recover?”

“Clean the toilets and vacuum the floor. I also have a couple loads of laundry that I must to get out of the way.”

“And after that?”

“I’ll probably just watch the TV.”

And that’s exactly how it went. It was another day of endless toil. But I’m one of those assholes who likes to whistle while he works. It’s tough to get depressed because the King of the Universe has written me into the book of life. So I try to do my duty with a big goofy smile on my ugly face. And why not, right? I’ve got food in the fridge and a little bit of money in the bank. Therefore, there’s no reason to get all suicidal.

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