A Sort Of Snapshot

Dropping off applications. That's the only thing I promised myself I would do today. It's hotter than Satan's cum outside. I can feel my scalp starting to burn just from the walk down the stairs to the car. My car looks like it has eczema - bright metallic blue next to dull, faded patches. Mange. Scabies. It always looks as defeated as I feel. I'm almost positive that the car has as much loathing for me as I have for it. It's a talent I have - giving personalities to inanimate objects. Just creating more plots and enemies. The steering wheel is rubber-y, wet, hot tar. My palms burn as I touch it. Brer Rabbit. The whorls and loops of my palms and fingers shift and they feel like they're melting. Wicked, wicked witch. Maybe if my fingerprints are gone, I can be someone else for a change. I clench the wheel harder. If my hands were sheep they would bleat. In a movie or a dream sequence, there would be steam snaking its way between my fingers. But there's not. I'm very much awake and this is very much just another couple of minutes of my life. There's just the bright windshield, the slow trinkle of air from the AC, that insect sound that you only hear on hot days, and the smell of 500 once wet now dry Orlando Weeklys. I usually keep my windows rolled down and it rains in my car. A lot. My hands feel completely fused to the wheel. If I were the Zodiac Killer - I wouldn't kill people so I could have slaves in the Afterlife, I'd kill people so I could have air conditioning units in the Afterlife. What would Anubis make of my soul? Watery and weak, sinewy and bitter, black and burned...with just the faintest traces of something decent and sad. I smile and think to myself: I deserve this, somehow. I know I do.