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on repeat

Somewhat autobiographical again. Writing this didn’t help much. Not at all. But hey, something to do.

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I spent my holidays on the couch in front of the TV. I slept in it, I ate my meals (if I ate) on it, I jerked off on it . . . in fact, the only thing I think I didn’t do on it was shower.

But then again, I didn’t exactly shower often either.

The television was my only solace. I passed the time watching the same repeated reruns, sequels to reruns, reruns of sequels to reruns, and music television. It was my way of escaping the reality I found myself in.

Life had changed. The whole world was awaiting me. Me. A child of barely 16. A child who knew nothing. Not even what he wanted.

Friends moved away. People grew old. Old haunts closed and new, alien shops opened in their place. The jolly old Chinese man from around the block didn’t take his evening walks anymore.

(I think he died sometime during then.)

Changes were happening. Changes around me, changes within me. But I didn’t want them to happen. I didn’t want things to change. I was stubborn. I was 16.

And so I stayed rooted to that couch.

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