A day in the life of the depressed existentialist (short story) –hopefully this is not me in 2 -3 years

Everyday was the same: wake-up, shower; spit at yourself in the mirror, in the morning; work, come home, drink two glasses of some alcoholic shit — then sleep. I was lost and bored. But, that day was different — it had a certain speed, action — a change to it.
The alarm clock erupted with the Rihanna song “hate that I love” — it erupted me out of my dream and into my nightmare (my life).
Showering, the water turned cold. I had forgotten to pay the gas bill; Fucking wanker’s charged me too much. Angry, I took myself by my hand, pushed the shower door open, and climbed out with a pissed-off sense of being screwed. So pissed-off that I forgot to spit at me reflection in the mirror.

The office was grey, dull like it always was; my ‘colleagues’ were oblivious to my existence as they always’ were; my boss was a PRICK as he always was — he greeted me with a pitying smile –God I HATE THAT SMILE.
The train was full of stinky, dirty, scruffy– people, and I had the privilege observing all of them, with all my senses.

I got home, opened the front door and walked in. Walking passed the dimly lit corridor, I spotted my face in the mirror; walked up to it, and spat at my reflection — then took two shots of whiskey and fell-asleep.

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