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“Life,” he mused, “is full of sorrow. We forget our yesterdays, and live for tomorrow.”

He awoke to the shrill sound of the alarm pulsating through his skull like there was a rat in his brain. “Fuck!” he impotently screamed as he pushed the button on his alarm clock, ceasing the infernal noise. Once again, the prospects for a wet dream were nullified.

Charles walked to the bathroom to ponder the weary prospects of the day and take a piss. He’d long since dispensed with such unnecessary duties as sanitation, and his humble commode fairly reeked of death. The still silence of the morning was broken by flatulence. He could breathe easier now.

Author Michael E. Monahan

A brief glance into the mirror and a sigh of sorrow later, he was in the shower pleasuring himself to the image of the fat bitch who served pastries in the office every morning. True, she fell far short of the ideal feminine form, but he was in a hurry and had no time to dilly-dally. Besides, she once laughed at one of his jokes.

He meandered to the sink to lather up, and thought it might be fun to listen to the news. He turned on the news and regurgitated into his much-beloved sink. There would be no more news for today.

Charles rushed to the car, only to discover he’d forgotten his keys. Cursing his fate, he prayed for a raise so that he could save enough money to buy a gun and blow his head off.

He scurried back to the house and shattered the side window with a broken electric can opener lying atop the rubbish bin. It had once been a favorite of his (a gift from a great dead aunt), but was no longer operative.

Crawling through the window with adroit speed, he severed his aorta on the shattered glass and bled profusely throughout the house. He’d had worse, he reasoned, so there was no time for tears. He cauterized the wound with a lighter he had stolen from the paint shop, and searched for his keys. The blood on the carpet would coagulate, he surmised, making it easier to clean up later.

Racing into the rush hour traffic of Monday morning, he yearned for the stewed figs he cherished as a youth. Sweet memories of stewed figs and traipsing through the dewy grass of seasons past sent his cranium cartwheeling as he plowed into the semi ahead of him.

The burly truck driver emerged from his rig, examined the damage, and calmly beat the shit out of Charles. Bleeding was not an atypical occurence for Charles, so he took it in stride and surreptitiously chortled as the burly truck driver mounted his rig and sped away.

Arriving at the office twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes late, Charles knew what was in store. There stood Mr. Spewlig, his boss, with his arms crossed and glaring eyes uglier than a dead whale’s asshole.

“Uh-oh,” thought Charles, “I bet he’s mad.”

But Mr. Spewlig was no angrier than normal. He would torment and abuse Charles just like any other day. He would subjugate and humiliate this rat puke of a wage slave in the same manner as he usually did. Mr. Spewlig launched into a psychotic monologue, berating Charles for his inefficiency, incompetence, lack of punctuality, and general worthlessness. His coworkers, teeming with mirth, hung on every irrate word that Spewlig’s tongue-lashing laid upon Charles, savoring every soul wrenching barb like a sliver of ahi laced with wasabi as Charles absorbed the barrage. It was now lunchtime.

Sauntering to the lavatory, Charles entered the stall and triumphantly shit. True, he had suffered a verbal undressing in front of his colleagues that would drive any reasonably sanguine creature to suicide, but there was still a feeling of pride that no army could vanquish. He eyed the empty toilet paper dispenser, and sobbed profusely.

“Life,” he mused, “is full of sorrow. We forget our yesterdays, and live for tomorrow.”

After an epic wipe, he returned to work. One of the things he liked best about his job was that it didn’t matter; it was entirely inconsequential. It wasn’t like launching the space shuttle for NASA: lives weren’t on the line. He could die tomorrow and not be missed.

In fact, Charles did die the next day. He had decided that life wasn’t worth living, and to stop sniveling and do something about it.

He showered, put on his favorite cologne, hopped in his car, and headed for Lover’s Bluff. It was a favorite spot for couples to make out, but Charles usually went there by himself. He was alone now, too.

Charles floored the accelerator of his piece-of-crap Pinto and headed for the cliff. Just before reaching the edge, he had an epiphany: Life is sacred! Life is worth living! The joy that filled his heart was sublime.

“Life is good!” he shouted gleefully.

Unfortunately, the laws of physics were against him. Realizing his mistake, he hit the brakes. Charles skidded a full fifty yards before coming to a stop at the end of the bluff. He balanced precariously on the edge as he began his mantra:

“Please! Please! Please!” he pleaded in the pathetic whine of a new inmate about to be sodomized.

But alas, it was too late. He plunged to his death and lay scattered across the rocks beside the beautiful blue Pacific. Rest assured, they garnished the wages of his last check to cover the towing fees. They removed Charles as well. He wasn’t charged for the service.

A minister spoke at his funeral, and told the mourners what a great man Charles was. In hindsight, there were no mourners, so the minister had to make do talking to himself.

They shovelled the dirt on Charles’ grave, and walked away. Once in a while, the caretaker comes by to wipe the bird droppings off his tombstone, but he doesn’t come by much.