Now, Gunner doesn’t hate a very much, after all ‘hate’ is such a strong word. Yet Gunner does have strong dislike for MANY aspects. Much of his dislike stems from everyday humdrum human interactions. And if there ever has to be a prototype of the one human being that Gunner actually does hate, he exists embodied in the physical form of Devin. Gunner doesn’t hate Devin, but he sure can’t stand him. He often tells himself, “it isn’t him, it’s the IDEA of him.”
Because why should Gunner be the one who feels this way? Gunner isn’t the smartest man but he is intelligent, comparably so when juxtaposed with the lump of mass that is Devin. Devin, whose excitement is only tested when the latest translation of One Piece is released, whose cardio regiment consists of routine internet arguments, whose only reason for being is to go home and play League of Legends until work the next day.
Fuck you, Devin.
“Hey Shooter. Your usual?”
How the hell does this waste of space know my sandwich but not my name? Gunner shakes his head as his eyes peruse the menu. Jessica isn’t working; he’ll be damned if his last meal is a tuna sandwich crafted by anyone’s mitts but hers. No, now is a time of change.
“Actually… I think I’ll go with the Eggplant Parmesan. On wheat.” Devin nods, Gunner smiles. But it’s one of those “You’re a piece of shit, I hope you know that” kind of smiles. “So, I thought Jessica worked today?”
“Oh, yeah.” Devin retrieves the pre-cut, pre-wrapped, pre-cooked slice of breaded eggplant and slaps the rubbery loaf between two halves. “She just called out, something about her cousin dying? I don’t know. Toasted?”
Gunner nods, please yes anything to make this more edible. “That’s terrible,” Gunner says. “Is she okay?”
Devin stops assembling the sandwich, his empty eyes rise to Gunner’s. “She’s dead, dude.”
No shit, Gunner thinks, but what about Jessica? “Right, I’m sorry,” as Devin puts the sandwich in the oven. This is exactly what I’m talking about, Gunner thinks. This asshole probably skates through life without a mattering care. How can he be comfortable in his skin? How does he sleep at night? How does he continue existing without feeling the pain Gunner does?
Maybe the answer is simple. Maybe Devin is as stupid as Gunner thinks he is. How else could he not understand the hidden truths that haunt Gunner’s waking thoughts? That the answer and question are both big fat nothings? Gunner learned long ago that everything changes, that happiness is fleeting, and that the only constant is pain. Gunner doesn’t mind the pain; in fact it’s the only aspect of life he can find some semblance of enjoyment in. It’s why he’s constantly stuck in a state of agony. But what he can’t get behind is the purpose. He didn’t ask for anything, nor was he given opportunities to change. The burden can’t be erased nor can it be eased. One simply must live with it, or choose otherwise.
Gunner figured this out when he was only 16. What the hell is Devin’s excuse?
The oven dings, and Devin asks, “Lettuce, tomato, onions?”
“Black olives, peppers?”
“Mayonnaise or mustard?”
Gunner wants to say fuck off.
“Salt, pepper, oil and vinegar?”
“I’ll take it plain, thanks.”
Devin looks around as if there was a right answer to his question, and Gunner got it wrong. “Suit yourself.”
Fuck you, Devin. It should be you, not me.
2/17/14 mon. Cult of Comet.