I've been drinking for a long time now. Whiskey, vodka, gin, rum, you name it. Beer too. Lots and lots. There's not much worth doing when you're drunk and alone. I watch television, mainly. Some days I watch game shows. I can guess the price of most any exotic vacation, decipher "Sacramento" with all the consonants missing, and tell you the names of all of Louis XIII's wives. I could rip serious shit if I were a contestant. Other days, I watch Telemundo. I can't understand what the people are saying, but they all have nice tans and full eyelashes. I kinda like their music too. All those trumpets. Don't tell anyone.

Alcohol inspires my lethargic torpor. Laziness is nothing to be ashamed of, in fact, I like to think it takes a special kind of person to truly appreciate the still grace I evoke by refraining from unnecessary movement. I move very, very little. So when, you ask, do I actually deign to engage in movement? On several occasions daily, even I must crack a can, pop a bottle, light a smoke, and twist the flush handle. But even these simple actions I perform with limp resignation. I do not allow my muscles to tense any more than needed. I am the human equivalent of a slug. The very personification of economy of exertion. All my heavy lifting is done in my mind, usually in conversations with myself. Like now.

My beer and booze is delivered weekly. I order takeout when I need to eat, which, in all honesty, is less and less often as time goes by. I'm learning to subsist on drinkables. Potato chips and greasy pizza and slimy kung pao don't sit well in a stomach lubricated by vermouth. I'm slowly losing weight, and I don't mind. I spend less energy moving that way.

I haven't bathed in several months. At first, I felt oily and dirty. I've since grown accustomed. My skin is shiny now. Healthy even, though pale. My robe has undergone a similar transformation. Before it was fuzzy and bright. Now it is smooth, drab, and matted down. By far the most comfortable garment I've ever worn. It's all I wear now. It hangs limp from my relaxed shoulders, a perfect complement to my elegant indolence. I rarely tie the waist.

My home is also tired. I don't waste time by cleaning the walls, vaccuuming the carpet, scrubbing the toilet, or any other such trivial pursuit. The sheer effort required for upkeep is far too daunting to contemplate, and like I told my mother decades ago, it'll just get dirty again. So I let nature intrude. I think it's a more honest way to measure the passage of time than The Price Is Right.

Dark green mold spores have grown on the wall behind my television, fueled by the cold wet air that mopes up the coast from the ocean. Over the past several months I've seen the slow blossomming from freckles to patches to spirals to fractals. Now the wall is mostly covered in mossy stubble. Sometimes I use my fingers to paint landscapes in it. This is one small concession to unnecessary movement that I allow myself. It feels compulsive. I'm not sure why I feel compelled to stand up and trace forgotten scenes into the mold, but it feels right.

Well, I'm growing concerned about it now. I'll admit. It's growing on me now. Not the action of drawing pictures, nor the movement required to create them. I could never grow fond of movement. You can see that. No, what's grown on me is my timekeeping mold. It started on my index finger and spread. Now my entire right hand is coated dark fuzzy green, and it's climbing up my arm. Streaks have appeared on my wrist. They look like water seepage on a basement wall. Smells like it, too.

I'm worried. 12:00 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm