He found nothing about life funny. Or beautiful. Or remotely enjoyable.
He sank lower in his seat.
Well, there was his wife, and his many unpublished writings. That’s Beautiful. Enjoyable.
My writings suck.
“Then you have negative fourteen to the…” His algebra professor droned while slowly fading out of existence.
Can’t be me anymore. Must be better.
He slapped his nose.
It was a nasty habit. An indication that anxiety was about to overtake his already turbulent mind. Like a spider-sense but for obsessive compulsive writers who lack charisma and self-confidence.
He checked the time.
He sank lower.
Hungry. Stomach sticking to the back of his spine hungry. He felt the if I don’t get food in my system soon I’m going to collapse kind of hungry.
The car emptied. Several seats were available.
He approached a seat. Removed his backpack. Pulled back at the last second. Remained standing.
He wanted the seat. In some ways he felt he needed a seat. Deserved a seat. But sitting down would be a terrible idea. He’d fall asleep the moment his ass hit the cushion. He’d slip into a coma the instant his head tilted back or his temple hit the window. He’d Oversleep. Miss his stop. Be forced to wait another twelve minutes for a train. Bad idea to sit.
“Super serum or Cybernetic suit?” He asked himself in a whisper.
Super serum, he thought. Cyber suits would be too much to lug around on his commute. And he imagined a man with super serum couldn’t/wouldn’t suffer from extreme tiredness and hunger. And a super serum recipient could hold their pee much longer than the average man. Super serum it is, he thought.
He took a seat. Rested his head against the window.