Lingering Melancholy
DISCLAIMER This is -not- explicitly autobiographical, no need for the water-works, chums- it's just a series of thoughts. :3 ONTO THE EXPOSITION
Arnie's tooth-pain has come down considerably. He still feels that he should see a dentist, though he hasn't worked enough hours to get insured by his company yet, and he's severely paranoid any further strain on his already tight budget will tip him over the scales into irretrievable oblivion.
He wants to go back to school, but he doesn't know what he'd study if he went- with his economic situation being what it is he can't really afford it- but it's led to this troubling paradox where he's consistently unsatisfied with his situation but he can't do much to shake it without making things worse for himself.
Maybe it won't be worth it in the long run, he's heard enough horror stories about what happens to some guys who go to college and wind up fucked afterwards, he doesn't want to wind up being a cautionary tale to someone, so he''ll continue to truck things along as they are, and hope for something better to sprout up.
He's starting to think his girlfriend might be cheating on him, she hasn't been returning his calls as often, and- well, she's starting to act weirdly detached and distant whenever she's around, which itself is a bit less often than he'd grown accustomed to. He's been having really nice chats with the girl at the checkout counter at his corner store- cute thing, her, maybe a bit young- but she's obviously interested in him, and him her. Maybe it's time he took his own hint and set himself up something new, anything new.
He's been feeling really down since the holiday season started, he's been smoking allot more lately- weed, cigarettes, incense, anything really- anything to take off the tension he's been feeling welling up in his chest. He knows, intelligently, that he should quit- but his chemistry disagrees. It's typically the loudest thing his girlfriend complains about, when she talks at all with him- his smoking. It depresses him; but he's a generally a depressing sight nowadays- slouched on the patio with a cigarette draped on his lip, baggy eyed, shirtless, distantly staring with a bit of unkempt stubble trailing down his neck and smoke insulating in his hair. He doesn't even know why he does it anymore, honestly, it used to make him feel good- it used to focus him, but now it's just a physical reaction- something he simply does to fill time or be even momentarily engaged. It makes him feel sick, but he can't stop doing it.
It's an odd realization when you find you're hopelessly addicted to something, or simply lost in a habit- and not intelligently pull yourself out of it. There has to be a catalyst, he's sure- maybe he needs to find a new religion or something, join a charity group- feel good for himself. But then again, that's simply not him- the compromised beast that he is, simply following the rails of a train he doesn't remember boarding. He's never been an ambitious person, he's never asked for more than he's needed, but he can't shake the feeling that he may be carrying on for no reason. The counter-culture, the politicos, the punks and anarchists- they've always wanted things he never cared for, but things keep getting under his feet- burdened on his shoulders, and he can never figure how a person who doesn't take or demand can be so encumbered with the neuroses of the world he lives in. Without that clear vision or conceit of ambition, he fails to find a reason why he's straining his back with this problem life and troubled mind. But he can't just...stop, can he?...
...He feels like having a burger tonight. He's heard a new joint just opened up a few streets over... maybe he'll get something to calm his stomach.
...nah, fuck it, he's gonna get a meal.
...A plus sized meal, he wants to feel good tonight.