A monologue about being a dysthymic living in the city.
This is something that happened one year; 1988, I think.
In that year, like all others, nothing exciting ever seemed to happen to me. Perhaps a lot of things happened, and I just didn't notice. Well, I'm sure a few countries were founded, a few countries broke apart, and several politico-socio-economic systems rose and declined all in that year. But, who cares? I certainly didn't seem to... not that I noticed anything, you know, but I wouldn't have cared if I did.
Okay, so nothing exciting really happened that year, but a few things did happen that I remember. I was living in this dinky little apartment—"studio," they called it, but that's all relative—on a busy street. Cars went by all the time, even late at night. One of those city streets. Every workday I got up in the morning, walked down a couple of blocks, bought some things for breakfast... I went through phases where I would eat Ding-Dongs, or an apple and a banana, or a day-old bagel or two, or, even, Cinnamon Oat Crunch... Whatever it was, I started eating as I was waiting in line to pay for the stuff. It was always the same old lady at the register, but she never remarked on the changes in my diet. She never remarked on me. Then, I would walk a few more blocks to work, still eating even as I walked up the stairs.
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