Survival Of The Fittest

"I was never fucking good at keeping schedules, you see?

"Like, what's the fucking point? Everything's gonna get done time.

"Like... it's whatever. It could take a week or it could take a month or it could take a year: it doesn't fucking matter. Everything's getting done. Like, I get it. If something's delayed, then it's delayed and it sucks, but have you considered that I don't give a shit. Like I've never cared about anything in general. I could die right now and I would not care.

"Like I have a lighter to an explosive fucking bomb and I'm fucking trying to make it explode for people I don't like.

"Someone could write that as a Twitter post and people would fucking eat that shit up. It's fucking hilarious. There's comedy everywhere, and even in places I shouldn't be looking at.

"Anyways: schedule. I'm a schedule. I have to do this shit quickly. It's fucking revolting how fast I need to do this. For someone who never handed anything in time, oh my god, imagine trying to do this on a timer. It's fucking stupid. Like I don't know, personally, I think I'm not made for this culture? Like anything that involves time is like not for me. It's so painful when I try to care about this type of things like come on. A hour? A hour? That's gonna be the thing that kills you?

"It's a fucking math homework, not your fucking like life insurance. Even there, who cares. It's a fucking life insurance. Am I supposed to give a shit? People die all the time. Like I died a week ago, and I'm fine now? I moved on. I coped. I grew up. People die all the time, people should really learn that. It's a schedule, not a fucking like I don't fucking divine will or some bullshit.

"Anyways, when are you blowing up?"

She was still waiting, the lighter presses against the collar. Her eyes were growing increasingly blurry from the vision. She couldn’t blink, in fear that it would happen when she couldn’t see. She had to witness this.

She had to.