The little fan that could

The little fan that could

At my desk battling the heat, a headache, and the urge to just give up on this day, this week, this month. I don’t know what’s the matter. Wish there’s a reset button. I know there’s tomorrow to start again, but I somehow resent having that knowledge, because that means cutting myself some slack today, when I should be doing what I can to make the best of it.

When I was a child, I used to stand in front of a big fan. I’ll keep it steady, then I will open my mouth and just let out a big “AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” The wind from the fan would change my voice; adds a vibrato, kind of.

What am I saying. I still do it today. And I just did it before I wrote this. Sometimes I say, “Luke, I am your fatherrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” Or, “YOU! SHALL NOT! PAAAAAAAASSSS!” Or, “This is not life. This is sickness. I shall not be like you. Order my destruction! Obey! Obey! Obeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

It’s 8:40 in the evening. Too late to find anything redeemable.

A kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Alonso, Scene III

Good night, M.


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