My throat is burning; a solid week of abuse is taking it's toll, as the sandpaper feeling at the back of my mouth reminds me of every cigarette and coffee I've had, and every whiskey and stout I've poured into my bloodstream. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't taken the occasional mother's little helper, too. Occasionally I puncture the tedium of this chemical ingestion with a bout of self-pity and panic. Every morning I oversleep, unanxious to deal with my last days at work. I trudge through the cold, clutching my Barbour tight to my body, and enjoy the first American Spirit of the day, and when I get to my office, read through the classified ads. Depression? No. Just numbness.
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