The Kids Aren't Alright

2

In the mornings, it takes ten minutes for me to get ready to go work in this generic, franchise sushi restaurant, which doesn't take much effort. My work attire consists of a black crew tee with a small blue logo on the right side, of which I have four, each with a banal, corporate statement on the back. <3 U V Mochi. I think you like miso much. Roll in to your favorite stop. It's all just a bunch of bullshit phrases used to make the restaurant sound cute, and its probably been focus-grouped to death, I'm sure of it. It's all been done before, but regardless I still hate wearing it. That's why my favorite shirt is the blank t-shirt with the mini blue logo on the left side like a regular crew shirt should look like: clean, minimal, and nicely fitted. It should always look fresh as hell no matter what day. Add on some nice low-cut jeans, a pair of white nonslip shoes and my pen and I'm all ready to go to earn a living. 

Earn a living making 10 measly dollars an hour. 10 dollars an hour just to mix around sauced fish bits in a bowl. 10 dollars an hour to roll up overpriced sushi for privileged white kids who may not even know that chicken isn't a traditional sushi ingredient. 10 dollars an hour to clean a never-sanitary restaurant that keeps getting dirtier each time I cleaned. At one point, it brought me joy and personal satisfaction to work. Now, I grow tired of the whole ordeal. I am happy to leave my mind out of my body for a couple hours, but I expect to be fairly paid to do so.

I walk down the hallways to the elevator, where it took me down to the lobby. No one is up this early, except for the doorman Len behind the front desk and the security guard Ken. Despite the similar sounding names, they were strangers to each other. However, spending the majority of the day together in solitude brought them closer, almost to the point that people mistake them for relatives, that's how familial they became. Meanwhile, my only best friend lives in my head and disappears when I most need them. 

"Len, my man, what's happening?" I intoned in a monotone voice.

"Just fucking delightful, snowflake. You know you got a shit for brains neighbor up there, right?" Len heckled. Classic Len, always dunking on the tenants whenever he has the chance. He does have the absolute right to, but sometimes I wonder what he tells other people about me when I'm not around.

"I heard that the landlord's planning on moving him out soon if he doesn't stop blasting that damn music every morning." Ken lamented, which surprised me. Ken never expressed his opinion on a lot of things.

"Listen, K, that poor guy lost his whole family in one night, so perhaps you and Len should cut the man some slack," I pointedly said, glancing to Len as well. Len doesn't back down, but I can tell Ken's conscience is battling with him. For some reason, that short reacquaintance rubbed me the wrong way. With that nicety out of the way, I turn away from the front desk to head out the front doors, which are where the bike racks are located as well. Locating my burgundy mountain bike out of the lot, I take a moment to pull the pen out of my jean pockets. 

Now I know for a fact that I'm not supposed to get high during my shifts; I'm pretty sure the manager suspects that whenever my mind isn't as sharp as he expects. However, I will assert that working a job as laborious, yet fruitless as this one is disheartening. I wish I had the skill to learn more and get a better paying job, but irresponsibly I dropped out of college right after my incident with you. I couldn't handle an academic career when my personal state was in shambles. Besides, the world is in shambles as well. Maybe the world isn't ready for a gifted burnout as a college graduate just yet. In the meantime, I work a minimum wage job to pay the bills and feed and clothe myself. Other than that, I never go out. Never watch movies, even at home. Can't hang out with anyone, even if I knew someone. Can't even afford basic entertainment to nourish myself emotionally. Now you wonder why I have smoke coming out of my ass. 

So this time, I take a moment to savor, to relish, to really absorb every wisp of smoke coming out. I can feel my cells open up, my pupils dilating, my cheeks warming, the world tuning itself into a finer setting. It's all a mix of effects in my brain that culminate into a nice, fuzzy feeling, perfect for helping pass time while sedating my worst impulses. Nice.

Time to make some dough.