The monarch's big day

Wake up. Contemplate the profundity of existence. Check the weather channel. Sunny and hot—imagine that.

Shower, get dressed. CNN drones in the background. People are mad at the President for reasons that are not wholly clear. It seems to have something to do with the fact that he’s an “uppity negro” that doesn’t realize that even half-black people have no right to make major decisions that will affect the country. I mean, I realize that he was voted into the office and all, but there are limits. This is still America, right?

Somewhere in there I smoke my first bowl of the day. Inside my head thoughts slowly clank to life, like a rusty old machine that hasn’t been turned on in years.

Pack my shit (computer, power cord, Odwalla bar, etc) into a briefcase and head out.

Get in my car and start down Olympic towards the office. Car makes weird sounds that are cause for concern. I promise myself I’ll take it to the shop soon. I’ve been telling myself this for months now.

Attempt to make it to the office without any road-rage meltdowns, which in L.A. is never an easy feat.

Pull into the parking structure. Park on Level 3. Clip my ID badge to my belt. Climb the stairs to the top of the parking structure. Make sure the letter is still in my back pocket. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. Below, fellow drones march listlessly towards their own destinations, oblivious to the fact that there’s nothing at the end of their journey but a hole in the ground or the inside of a large oven. I notice an attractive woman below. She’s young, late teens, maybe early Twenties. She’s beautiful, with flowing dark hair and a tailored business suit. She has the smile and gait of someone that’s really going somewhere, with a bright, vital future in store.

The woman is talking on her cellphone, oblivious to my presence a few stories above her. When my plunging body lands on her and kills us both, she literally has no idea what hit her.

It’s my little parting gift to her. No need to suffer the crushing disappointment that surely lies ahead, the cruel way time would eventually strip her of her looks. She wouldn’t have to endure men that would eventually look through he as if she were no longer there when she gets old. No child would break her heart by growing up to become a whore on the streets of Baltimore that lets guys from the suburbs videotape her sucking them off in their expensive cars to afford another small bag of blessed death to slowly take her away from all of the horror.

Instead, just silence, peace and the warm, comforting embrace of nothingness.