30 minutes

6 o’clock. Annoying time for people who want to sleep, perfect time for people who don’t. Unfortunately, she was part of the first category. Every day of the 5 working days of the week, at the same bloody hour, the alarm had to scare away all her nice dreams about dirty dances with black sexy niggas or other sort of fucking machines. Every day her already tormented brain got even more tormented, twisted, scattered, or simply fucked by that incredibly noisy sound, and she wonder…is that in the nature of small things to do big time work?...Her former boyfriend seemed to think so, though she never really felt it as such…Hmm…On a second thought, she never really felt it in any way. But what the hell?...He’s dead and gone and there’s no reason for her to ruin her few minutes of happiness – and I mean genuine happiness – with that. One quick glance in the mirror, before going to bathroom. Blue lines under her eyes. Yuck! Once again, long live the make-up! Pale yellow face. Good. She can pretend to be sick again and get free earlier. Never believed by anyone, always using the same trick. Since they won’t believe her anyway, what’s the point of trying a new lie? Brain has to take rest for really important matters, as for instance the increasing price of cigarettes and decreasing amount of money in her bank account. She should have become a prostitute, as someone advised her long time ago, in the middle of her first blow job process. “You really have it in you, baby! You’re the girl!”. Luckily for him, she couldn’t use her mouth for a proper answer, and neither her teeth, to teach him a lesson, because her nutritionist advised her to avoid rotten meat. Unluckily for her, she was too young and too stupid to see a good advice when she got it. Oh, the magic of peeing! Nothing more releasing than this basic activity of the human body! Who gives a damn about biology classes? It doesn’t matter where it comes from and why, as long as it does come and it does make her feel as…uuuhhhh…that was nice…now she can really say good morning without frowning her forehead to her under-bug-attack lovely little kitchen. And the smooth toilet paper with multiple functions…as good for her nose as it is for her nicely shaved pussy…hehehe…well….err…not the same piece of toilet paper. She was not some kind of freak, though she heard so many stories that made her stomach cry in deep pain. The next step and ultimate reality – coffeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!...Bitter and black in her favourite cup with a naughty message right on the bottom: “Lick me to the last drop.” Smart guys – the ones who wrote that. Smart and frustrated about their wives. She could imagine the poor worker in that cup factory, completely blank-minded while printing those letters inside her sweet coffee cup. In the same time, she could also imagine his wife being fucked by her neighbour, or, in a classical picture, by the postman, while kids were playing in the backyard and hubby was working his ass off next to other hubbies working their asses off. Five minutes to prepare it, fifteen minutes to drink it along with her two morning cigarettes. No thought in this time. Maybe scanning a fashion magazine or watching a music channel on TV. Most probably doing nothing of these, but barely looking through the window and mixing smoke with fresh air coming through. She needed this silence of mind. She needed this loneliness. 15 minutes. All she could afford to give to herself each day. And the only moment when she didn’t have to belong to anyone. Soon after that, she was bound to find herself caught in the big stream again, without being able to fight against it because her mom taught her that good girls don’t fight, and she was supposed to be a good girl. She could already smell the stream. She could already hear it coming towards her. She could already feel the carelessness getting into her body and the big rush knocking at her door. Time’s up, sweety! Once again, fuck the rest and be happy! 6.30. Gooooooooooooooooood mooooooooooooooorning, Vietnam!...God, how great he was in that movie…that’s when she saw for the first time that being yourself means being a weirdo means being kicked out from every possible social life granted to working ants. 6 o’clock was, one more time, 24 hours far from her happiness. Goooooooooooooood mooooooooooooooornign, Vietnam!!!... Locking the door, she stepped firmly into the flow of human insignificance.