To the (hopefully) Great Beyond

Listen to your boss drone on about their upcoming vacation in that European country famous for just… existing.

Clock out at 5 p.m., itching to lick an electrical outlet—call it a shock of inspiration, if you’ll indulge the pun.
Exhausted.
Not from the work itself, but from the sheer act of having to do this every day until I die. Exhausted because the thought “this isn’t how I planned my life” keeps creeping in, only for the voice in my head to snap back with "breaking news: you never actually planned your life."

Take the train, because it’s faster than the bus in the evening.

Check notifications on my phone:
Credit card offers so I can drown deeper in debt, ensuring I have no choice but to keep working until, with any luck, I keel over at my desk from a stroke.
A pre-registration ad for that gacha game I’ve been waiting for, because the only way to feel like a hero in real life is through JPEGs spouting affectionate voice lines.
Spam about “single moms in your area”—translation: click here to add another bad decision to your list.

Real notifications: zero.
Real messages: zero.

Try to dodge reality by blasting music during the commute.
Sneak glances at other people—people chatting, probably planning a weekend get-together.
A couple or two, likely in the honeymoon phase, loudly proclaiming their “eternal, unconditional love” in the most exaggerated way possible.
Feel a mix of disgust and envy at the whole scene.

Get off the train one stop early and walk ten blocks to my apartment, just so I can tell myself the trek counts as exercise, though deep down it’s a desperate attempt to escape something.

Get home. Instant noodles. Watch some poorly acted, low-budget series.
Question my life again, brush my teeth, and try to sleep.
Rinse and repeat.

That was my life, day in and day out. But now I pose the question: is this what it means to live?
I’d say it’s just ticking off days until I drop dead from exhaustion, retire, or off myself.
All three are equally likely, though I’d prefer to go out at work. Bet more than a few would faint watching me convulse, foaming at the mouth, dancing my way to the great beyond.

Today, leaving work, I felt… adventurous, for lack of a better word. I wanted to try something new—cook my own food. Yes, it’s not exactly groundbreaking, but cut me some slack, alright?

I went to the store across from my apartment. Personal superstition, doesn’t matter why, and even if it did, I’m not in the mood to explain. I like stepping only on the white lines at crosswalks—call it my Beatles routine, like I’m crossing Abbey Road in my own sad little way.

I decided on something simple I’d seen in a tutorial, so I was checking the eggs’ integrity—you know, shake them, and if they don’t rattle, they’re good, or so my mother used to say. Honestly, I looked like a mess: disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes, and dark circles that could rival high-end eyeliner.

What did people think seeing me?
Back from a rager?
High on something?
No, ladies and gentlemen, I’m high on corporate drudgery—probably healthier to be on actual drugs.

The plan was simple: eggs, rice, shoyu, green onions, nori, furikake, and sesame seeds. (This is both a mental note and an invitation—try it if you want.)

I shuffled to the register, answered “fine” to the cashier’s “how you doing?”—“Fine” hasn’t been in my vocabulary since my teens. I only say it because it’s what people want to hear. Nobody actually cares how you’re doing, and trust me, they don’t want to know if something’s wrong.

Stepped outside, popped my earbuds back in. Choosing a 2:30-second song for the walk from the store to my apartment took longer than the shopping and checkout combined—yes, there was an old lady with a cart full of groceries who didn’t know how to use a credit card, but that’s a cliché I didn’t want to bring up.

Hit play and walked even slower. My brain was stuck on a single, stagnant question: Is the shuffle on playlists really random? If the sequence repeats, it’s not random anymore. I’m paying for a subscription, and they’re scamming me with playlists that aren’t even random.

Stepped on one white line: for the meaningless days dragging me to nowhere.
Two white lines: for my youth slipping away, safe in monotony—so safe in the 'day after day'.
Three white lines: for the tin man flailing his arms, even when his joints are rusted shut.

The fourth line was replaced by two floating headlights—not headlights, actually, but a truck, obviously not stopping in time to avoid turning me into a trash bag about to be compacted. And I wasn’t going to dodge it because… maybe I didn’t want to?

Of course it had to be a truck. A small, white one. Couldn’t even grant me a dignified end—just a cliché wrung dry.

I felt a moment of peace and warmth as my body hit the concrete. The peace was probably my life flickering out, knowing I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow. The warmth was the blood pooling from the back of my head.
Though I could barely see, the carton of eggs was right next to me, scattered, broken—just like me, your charismatic narrator.

I’d like to think I had a small victory in the end. My mother taught me well: the eggs weren’t bad.