Intro. Middle part. Ending. That’s what I’m thinking of writing for this column because you don’t really care what it says, I don’t either, and if we both don’t care, then why even have any content? Yes, it’s Rhoda Bloom again and I’m supposed to get out of bed and write my column, but now I’m wondering why that’s even a requirement—getting out of bed. And writing, for that matter.
Anyway, Spring is here. I guess. Birds are chirping. The weather is warmer. I feel a breeze roll over my face as I walk outside and notice a homeless man screaming something about how I stole his space suit. And it makes me think that I probably did, at least metaphorically, whatever that means.
There’s a war in Eastern Europe. Maybe you saw something about it on the news? Remember the part where the one guy said he might nuke everyone if he didn’t get what he wanted? I’m pretty sure I dated him. Don’t worry though, maybe he’ll die of Covid or something. Before all of us do. And we’ll get a couple weeks to celebrate that he’s dead and then when we’re doing shots and dancing and everything, this really tall dude who’s at the party will grab my hand and say, “It’s your time. Come with me.” And I’ll totally have sex with him because he’s my type. Then he’ll take me straight to Hades. And he won’t call me.
“Fuck… What the fuck?” I’m assuming those will be my last words.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?” I’m assuming that’s what someone will say when they find my body.
I keep thinking I’m in a movie about a post-apocalyptic world where no one can afford gasoline and I have to offer sex to random men so they’ll drive me places. But they always turn me down and say stuff like, “Uh… I can drop you off at Target. I don’t need the sex.” And the ride there is super awkward. Yeah, I know, it’s real life and not a movie. Duh. Like anyone would ever put me in a movie. I mean, except for a documentary about depression or something. Or one about women who offer sex for rides to Target. I guess I was in a movie.
I ordered an “impossible” burger the other day and the waitress told me it was an appropriate choice for me. She never came back with the sandwich.
I read that everything we see is actually delayed up to ten seconds, so we’re just walking around looking at stuff that already happened. I’m assuming that’s why I run into walls and other people? I also assume that means when we die we have like ten seconds where we’re thinking, “Why the fuck is everyone looking at me like that?”
The thing about Spring is that it’s supposed to be a time of renewal, and it is, just like when I get an email saying my subscription to Clinical Depression Magazine is going to be automatically renewed unless I tell them not to, and then I start trying to figure out how the fuck to stop them from charging me again but then the homeless guy outside my window starts screaming again about his space suit and I forget what the fuck I’m doing and wait another year.
Magazines present a world you wished you lived in, full of vibrancy, life, and promise. Except if its Clinical Depression Magazine. That one’s just about psychiatrists telling you you’re fucked, I think, because once they start writing about how a “recent clinical study blah blah blah” I give up and tell myself I’m going to end my subscription, but not till the year is up and they tell me they’ll automatically renew it unless I tell them not to.
Anyway, I’m just about done. With this column, but also most everything else. My new boyfriend is screaming at me and I need to go. He’s pissed off about his space suit. It’s ok. He’s who I deserve. I’m done writing now. Good bye.
Rhoda Bloom is just a person who wrote this. She does not work for the Intergalactic Business Report. But you can leave a message for her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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