This guy comes into my work, suit and tie sort, crisp, chubby, orders epresso or something like it. He keeps his eye on me, I wasn’t taking his order, but I made his drink. He talks to me over the glass. People normally do, I normally gave half-aired responses and throw in a funny one-liner. Not with this cat. He takes off his silver-rimmed glasses and starts polishing it as if it could shine more. Then he asks, “what are you doing? I mean, with your life. Answer me in one sentence and I’ll tell you if it’s lame or not.”

Shit. How does anyone answer that? Isn’t life just a pass-time of which we’re all passing through? I heard that in a lazy song once but decided that song spoke some harsh truth. So did this cat. It was a simple question. Why couldn’t I answer? I thought about the bullshit I would have said if I was on a first date but he could’ve been a salesman and seen right through it. I thought about telling him the truth and that would’ve either shut him up or would’ve had him conclude I was joking, inviting further conversation. But he got me. On the first try. That’s hard to do. So I avoided answering his question, pretending like I was busy, spitting jokes. This cat laughed but then said, “no really, what are you doing in life? One sentence.” Fuck this cat in his fucking suit, I thought.

After he’d gone was when I really thought about his question. What was I doing with my life? I feel I’ve accumulated enough knowledge with a balanced sensed of philosophy to make a difference. I simply lacked the motivation and the initiative. They’re mentally expensive but worth the investment I suppose. But I was raised defeatist. Everyone wants to be famous, advertise themselves on the internet, live lavishly. Not me man. I want to live in the real world. Be left alone. But this cat really put it to me. Fuck this cat. But he was right. What was I doing? What’s anyone doing?

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