Shit could be worse.

Back in the apartment, common space smelled like feline excrement with a hint of rotten food for a while now. I probably should be more concern about it but it seemed like I’m the only one in the house that is bothered by the odor. The bathroom too was covered in musty smell while the tub was layered with dirty soap residue. I can’t remember when was the last time the place I live in felt like a home to me. I didn’t know the term “shit hole” could apply to residential space quite literally.
I was hoping I could really utilize my day-off from work to it’s full potential, but the feeling of unaccomplishment sank in deep like a wreckage boat as I finished watching the movie called “The Future”. I knew I am part of the generation of late bloomers, but mid-life crisis somehow hit sooner than I could imagine. I thought I’d be a lot smarter by now, but the railroad track that I called “life” isn’t taking me forward at all. I thought I’d be a successful artist by now, but I’m still wasting my time trying to make ends meet.
I have worked at various places before, from making sandwich on a homeless-filled street to teaching brats photography in college. Never before have I felt worse about my life and my passion. A job as a server in a fancy restaurant has not only managed to exterminate my passion in food, but also brought out the worse of me that I never knew exist. I thought I have always treated others with respect and kindness, but now all I can imagine is to rip off someone’s neck with my bare teeth. And just when I finally found the job that I knew would make me happy, I’m killing myself even more painfully just to wait for a response.
And for better or worse, courage and passion pushed me to sign up a month worth of swing dance class. I have always believed both courage and passion were the two best friends I can always trust my life with, but now I started to suspect those two were scheming a diabolical plot to crush my spirit like peppers in a toss salad. For the first time in my life, dancing has been more difficult than crawling on my hands and knees when I tried to reach my head closer to the toilet seat when I’m drunk out of my mind.
I thought I could wash away all my sadness with some good-ol-fashion live jazz music at my favorite pub. Turned out I couldn’t be more wrong. Watching the talented musicians and the dancers on the floor did initially brought back that smile I’ve almost forgotten, but immediately, tribulation grew as my heart sink deeper and deeper into the sea of abyss like a treasure chest. I started to reflect on all my failures in life one by one, knowing I can never turn back the time to mend any of my mistakes.
Like a lens trying to capture a forever-lasting image, my mind began to focus on the love of my life. I imagined my feeling unknowingly, has written to a invalid address, and now has been send back by the post office of broken heart.
For two hours straight, I’ve tried my hardest to not break out a single drop of tears. Nothing is more pathetic than crying in a pub while intoxicated. I thought I could at least save myself that very last bit of dignity, but as it turned out, dignity was a lot harder to preserve than apricot jam.
I walked out of the bar embarrassingly, began to attempt to find the nearest store to buy a pack of cigarette that I have not done for so long. I think I muttered something that sounded like “Nat Sherman” to the cashier as he suspiciously starring at my teary eyes. He asked me if I was eighteen, and I lied that I just turned eighteen, right before I felt guilty for lying and handed him my ID. In retrospect, I wonder if the cashier thought I was on heavy drugs, because to lie about being 18 would mean that I was born 6 and half years later. Even a minimum-waged mid-night cashier can add up the math to tell that I was really just full of shit.
Afterwards, I stumble from left to right to the river. I lit my cigarette and remembered a New York Time article about every New Yorker will experience public crying at least once in their life time. I thought that moment couldn’t be any more appropriate to do my share to be part of the statistic of public crier. And that was when I really let it all out, I cried so hard and so ugly that people would probably think I’m a well-trained actor rehearsing for my new role in the prime time soap opera. I cried loudly as the rain mixed thoroughly with my tears down my face. I was soaking wet from sitting in the middle of the rain and I could not care if anyone was watching at all. I needed that, more than anything else. I needed to know what it was like to hit rock bottom and I needed to remember what it felt like as I wrote this down this very instance. So perhaps, in the near future, I can be reminded that, shit could really be worse.