The Talk

"What exactly do you do?" she asked.

I was tired. I felt like being truthful. "Masturbate, mostly. When I'm not recovering from that, I tend to stare at computer screens and endlessly scroll through other people's content, searching for the motivation to create some of my own."

Much to my relief, she laughed. "Sounds like a lot of stay-at-home moms I know."

"What, even the masturbation?" I asked.

"You'd be surprised," she said, and winked.

"Huh. I guess boredom and listlessness are pretty universal, so that makes sense."

"How do you eat, then?" she asked.

"I put food in my mouth and chew. Sometimes it's protein shakes, so that's mostly just swallowing. It always involves swallowing, and various degrees of digestion. Depends on my overall stress—"

"Okay, Mr. Literal," she interrupted. "I meant how do you pay for the food you need to eat to survive? How do you pay the rent? Enjoy material things?"

"I knew what you meant, I was just being a jerk. I worked really, really hard some years ago and put most of the coins I earned in a box. I dip into that box from time to time."

"How big is this box?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Big. But lately I've caught some glimpses of the boards on the bottom, and that's causing some concern."

"Think you'll have to, you know, get a real job again?"

"I shudder to think. But it's possible. The pressure to succeed on a wider scale is certainly high; the highest it's been since I arrived. But work is for fools, and I've fooled myself enough for several lifetimes."


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