I Don't Need Friends."I know what you're going through dear, trust me."
You wake up and wonder why you even bother having an alarm clock. It has never had a chance to ring. You say a prayer to yourself or to some deity you believe to exist or maybe you stretch.
Open the door. Maybe you will run, maybe you will swim, or maybe it is time to work on the heavy bag. The air wraps you in its cold crispy splendor and the only cricket awake is you.
Feel a little better. Breakfast is to be eaten. An ocean blue flame greets you with a hasted grunt while the bacon and eggs chatter lively. Your cereal pops and you hold your head against the bowl just like they did in the commercials.
A knob or four turn and you make it rain. The lovely sparkling water that embraced your body since your earliest memories feels just as it did then, as it does now.
The journey of a lifetime, pit against the weathering rain, the little heat from your coffee cup accompanies you as you take your seat, one spot away from the next person.
Your laptop comes alive, but there is no Facebook blue. A pleasant aroma interrupts your thoughts. You sniff your collar and you can make out the faint scent of your cologne.
Someone decides to take the empty seat next to you, asking if you'd mind.
You do. Yet you motion for them to join you.
The rain begins to torrent by the time you leave. A stranger offers to share her umbrella with you, but you shake your head and prance into the puddles, loving the giant beaded splashes that mess up your clothes.
A warm, dry building welcomes you with its blinding lights and you feel invigorated. You create the same exact coffee mixture that had comforted you since your first day in this forsaken rut and its familiarity is almost too pleasing.
You take your favorite seat by the window and stare away at the heavy rain, sipping the drink through a near-molten bendy straw and you put your head down onto the cool table because your company had never been so damn enjoyable.