Unprecedented Happiness

I often suppose that people perceive me as Spike Spiegel of Cowboy Bebop. I walk around with a stiff-as-a-board yet chill, carefree and aimless walk, my hands in my pocket, generating a sense of grandeur with every step, feeling very suave and heroic. There is this air about me that screams necessity: the kind of thick, almost chewable air that surrounds and envelopes big and powerful heroes such as Karl Malone or Troy McClure. During fight scenes, hip bebop jazz is gracefully played in the background as if sung by choirs of angels, creating the ambience you would expect if Miles Davis himself were to enter the room. Yes, we are exactly alike in every way. One might even mistake me for him and him for me, were it not for my glasses and his being a character of some cult anime programme.

Alas I walk around and these fools step up to mess with me. Cue the jazz. Cue the first punch, which explains the blood on my hands. Actually it's ink. Red ink. From the pen that so obnoxiously leaked on me today as I was anxiously engaged in jotting a few hypnotic notes on corn yield, ad nauseam. The aroma surrounding my desk is that of tannic acid-filled beans roasted to (some would say) perfection, ground up and steeped in boiling hot water the temperature liquid magma attains before commencing it's path of destruction, conquering all and everything in its path, liquidating even the Earth, showing no compassion for life, death, or the inanimate.

"Don't forget your coffee. I don't like the smell." I say as the cup holding the abrasive fluid sits on the surface of my desk, a lone stranger like the single cactus that has curiously sprouted out of the ground in the center of the moon. Don't be ridiculous: the moon doesn't have the atmosphere to support life, let alone a simple cactus with illusions of acceptance yet accepted by none.

This is the kind of day that makes you smile. Nothing can bring you down. Let the pen leak its blood-like substance only yearning in vain to be the essence of life that its self-proclaimed, distant cousin takes for granted every second of every day. Let the aroma of a badly brewed cup of liquid sin fill the four by six space you call your office where you sit on a chair stabilized by 5 wheels and waste oxygen until the faceless hands touch four and you are sent away like the silver medalist at the Olympic games. Let Mt. Dew be against the law and your car break down twice 2 days after completing your five-year loan and criminals break into your place and take your Xbox 360, Wii, and PS2 and your mom tell you that you were really bred in a test tube in some nameless lab somewhere in the middle of the red light district of Shenyang, China and your camera drop to the ground, destroying all of your memories from the last 3 years and facebook charge its users with each new notification and ostinato in music be outlawed and aliens come down and annihilate our entire species and Microsoft come out with an operating system that actually works, is innovative and not utterly useless, increasing sells and revenue such that Apple is forced to back down and thus issue a mandatory recall of all of its products across the globe for one gigantic and final end to all good things known to man.

You can't be touched. You smile. A genuine smile. Something that hasn't been seen since Y = Xβ + ε was first published by Gauss in some seemingly-ancient and obsolete manuscript. Or at least it feels like that long.

The jazz plays on.