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from Harvester by Tom Mohler

3 A.M. at Home

I haven’t slept for days, or maybe it’s been weeks. Hell, I’m not even sure anymore. I’ve been popping Ambien from the unmarked pill bottle sitting on the table next to me like it was my job, washing them down with a bottle of Davy Crockett brand whiskey. It’s a very strict regimen, but here I am still awake— unable to even black out drunk and on drugs.

I can only assume my insomnia is some sort of stress induced ailment. Money has been pretty tight lately and the monotony of this trifle existence that I call a life is wearing me thinner than I’d like to admit.

The television is on and it’s what you’d expect from basic access at three in the morning. People telling you that you need diet supplements, that you can be thinner and more attractive, and they’ve got just the thing for you. How you need to buy a time share at some shitty resort you’ll only be able to visit during the non-peak season once a year. For only five easy payments of forty-nine ninety-five you can own the ultimate pitching wedge and be a powerhouse golfer in the blink of an eye. Buy this, buy that— you need it all if you are to survive in this world.

I change the channel to the local late night news— good old Channel Four. Apparently, a few million people died in China due to some massive scale industrial accident, but profits are up so it’s all good— there’s no need to worry. Life goes on as usual, the cash flow uninterrupted.


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