Things could be worse. My neck is so stiff that I have to turn my whole body to look in either direction. The palms of both hands are ripped across the meaty part, open and festering wounds where callouses and blisters had proven themselves insufficient to the the task of protection. I haven't had a good nights sleep in weeks, making due with snack-sized portions of rest when both time and inclination allow. The problem seems to be that these twin forces rarely come together any more.
I look slowly around the room that has been my home since I set out six weeks ago. The room usually rents by the hour, by I was able to convince the manager to let me buy my time in bulk. The one lamp flickers, and I cannot image that the bulb has much life remaining. There is a large crack running from the door all the way to the kitchen. I note, with surprise, that there are no cockroaches currently visible.
Still, things could be worse. I take a sip of stale whiskey, bringing the plastic cup to my lips without moving my head; the better to accommodate my stiffening neck. The Kentucky Rye came in a mason jar, and tastes about like you'd expect for $5.99. For a single, bleak second, I crave a few ice cubes, but there is no fridge in the room, let alone a freezer, and there damn sure aint one of those fancy ice dispenser contraptions that they have at the end of the hall in decent places.
Still, things could be worse. I have to go to work soon, and the responsible thing to do would be to catch some shut-eye, eat something, and maybe even wash one of the two pairs of work clothes that I own. Anything other than sitting here drinking cheap whiskey and killing cockroaches would be a giant step forward in terms of being responsible. Of course, the entire point of taking this job and this life was so that I didn't have to do the responsible thing. The trade-off is that I have the time to think long and deeply about anything and everything. I mull this over slowly, and stay where I am, and take another long pull.