That Morning Feeing.

After watching BBC News last night regarding the conflict in Libya, I was inspired to write this.

That Morning Feeling

That morning, Joe woke up at 7:14 precisely. He had set his alarm for 9:00, but his alarm clock wasn't in sync with his body clock.

He pulled the covers off himself and his dog, using his toes to find his slippers, he thrust them on, and stood up - groaning. Opening the curtains, he was welcomed by a melancholic sky. Grey, with a the sun trying to fight its way into visibilty.
He lit a cigarette and looked at himself in the mirror. He did not look healthy. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes, stubble, oily skin. He smoked half his cigarette, and placed it in the kitchenette ashtray. It went to his head if he smoked it all.

He lifted his rigid leg over and into the bath; climbing into it, he pulled over the yellowy-green florial shower curtain. The pipes groaned a tiresome 7am groan as he turned on the taps. They were set on their opposites - HOT as cold, COLD as hot - and he kept meaning to change them, just like he had for the past 4 years.

He switched on his TV as he dried himself. That towel never dried him properly, and he always ended up using the hairdryer on his body instead. He always thought to himself, if someone were to peek into his window at that point, he'd look like a pervert using the hairdryer on his balls.

He got fed up, and left his hair damp. He contorted into his dirty jeans and his aged Joy Divison t-shirt. He bought that when he was 19 from Camden - back when he thought it was cool to like obscure Indie bands and drink wine in bars. That was nearly a decade ago. He didn't know why he continued wearing it, it just made him feel old and depressed.

The transfer from carpet to lino felt weird under his bare feet as he stepped from the living room into the kitchenette, he made himself a bowl of Coco Pops for breakfast. He liked Coco Pops, but he felt like a 12 year old when he ate them and a paedo when he bought them. He felt as if people looked at him, thinking: "What does a man of his age want with Coco Pops? He must be a paedophile." He wasn't a paedophile. He liked kids, and would one day want his own, but first he'd need a woman who wanted to date him for a long time, and usually he didn't get past the first date.

He sat on the sofa, feet perched on the coffee table, watching daytime TV through his knees. He didn't know why he had a coffee table, he didn't like coffee and also rested his tea on his lap or put it at the foot of the sofa. He guessed he felt obliged to buy one, as if it was a necessary thing, for if he didn't, he may become a social outcast. He friends would betray him, for he didn't have adequate facilities for them to rest their drinks (and they weren't fans of his methods).

Neville, his dog, slowly trudged into the living room, glancing at him lazily as if to say greet him and acknowledge the time of day. Neville clambered onto the sofa, curled into a semi-circle, and resting his head inbetween his front paws, began to watch TV.

Joe could never comprehend why daytime TV was so shit, or why it he was watching it? It was aimed it slackers, he thought. He hated it, yet every so often he found himself watching it. Jeremy fucking Kyle. He had to watch him, because he hated him. He'd watch the home renovation programmes with mild interest, always pondering what he'd do if he became a home-owner.

Plucking odd socks off of the radiator behind him, he tugged them onto his feet. Neville went to get his lead while Joe pulled on his dirty, old Converse. This was a routine both he and Neville knew backwards. Neville, though only a dog, knew that it'd taken Joe (on average) between 24-41 seconds to put on his footwear and make it to the front door - where Neville would wait - picking up his leftover cigarette on the way. Then he'd pull on his coat, which was pre-equipped with dog-shit bags and a lighter, and grab his keys.
Joe would always get one foot out the door, before checking he had his keys, and then leave with Neville in tow.

That morning, like every morning, Joe and Neville took the lift down to the ground floor, crossed over the road, turned left, walked down for about 44 seconds, turned right, headed forward for about 72 seconds, go around the back of the mini-cab office, down the alley where he that drunk girl gave him a BJ - he always looked at the exact spot where the incident occurred with a mixture of satisfaction ad self-disgust - and then took a right into the small, fenced-off, grassy area where Neville would release his load.

He would then let Neville off his lead. Neville would begin to run to show enthusiasm, but would stop within a few moments, as if he thought: "What's the point?"

Joe would usually sit on the bench, light a cigarette, spread his legs lean forward, hands clasped and watch Neville piss, and wait for that all important moment when Nev would unload his morning turd and Joe would have to go pick it up.

That morning, however, things were different. As Joe sat - legs spread, back arched, hands clasped - watching Neville shit, something happened. Off in the distant sky, there was a strange occurace. It looked a long, dark shape falling to the ground. It only took a moment before Joe realised would it was, and a overwhelming sickness came upon him.

And as it headed for land, Joe thought about everything. About it all. He thought about how he hated the job he had, the flat he lived in, and the people he knew. He thought about how he had little emotional connection with his family, and it saddened him that he was no longer close to his Mum. He wished he had tried harder with her, but knew it was too late now. He thought about the aspirations he had - to be a writer, to be a husband, to be a father, a grandfather, a family man, a homeowner. He thought about the life he had, the potential he had wasted. He thought about what a cock-up the whole world had become, and how the beauty had been replaced with concrete. He thought about the nature of existance, and he thought that mankind were just arrogant, over-evolved insects. Most importantly, he thought, "Fuck."

The only thing Neville thought was, why was it taking Joe so long to pick up his shit?