When Ozzie Met Fizze

When Ozzie Met Froggie

As I gradually awaken to the solitude of the bed, the echo of silence fills the room, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the sheets beneath me. A deep-seated irritability settles over me like a heavy blanket, its weight amplifying the dramaturgical display of my discontent. I stretch my limbs reluctantly, each movement accompanied by a symphony of exaggerated groans and sighs, as if to underscore the performance of my current mindset.

Outside, the hellish light filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room, but within me, a storm brews, a tempest of frustration and annoyance. Yet, even amidst the gloom, there is a certain poetic irony to this morning’s performance, a recognition that in my solitary discontent, I am the protagonist of my own morning narrative.

 

With a begrudging sigh, I finally muster the willpower to abandon the comforting embrace of the bed. As I stumble towards the kitchen, a haze of grogginess clouds my senses, intensifying the already palpable irritation simmering within me. Fumbling with the coffee pot, I manage to brew a cup with clumsy hands, only to watch helplessly as it spills onto the countertop, a dark puddle of wasted potential.

 

A surge of frustration courses through me, and in a fit of impulsive anger, I seize the cup, its fragile form crumbling beneath the force of my grip. The sound of shattering ceramic fills the air, an unmelodiousness of broken dreams mingling with the bitter aroma of spilled coffee. And then, without a second thought, I turn my fury upon the coffee pot itself- smashing it to pieces with reckless abandon, shards of glass flying in all directions as I vent my pent-up rage. Flames filling the void of the space, all-consuming as my fury explodes.

 

In the aftermath, as the echoes of destruction fade into the silence of the room, I stand amidst the wreckage, my chest heaving with exertion and emotion. My robe having slipped off both shoulders during my temper tantrum, exposing my bare chest. I gaze upon the scene in front of me, and a sense of catharsis washes over me, a fleeting release from the weight of my own discontent. And though the mess before me remains a testament to my momentary lapse of control, there is a strange satisfaction in the chaos, a reminder that even in my darkest moments, I am still capable of feeling something, anything, in this monotonous existence.

 

“Sir, your appoint-“,

My assistant stops herself, hands full of folders and papers intended for me, mid-door entrance when she sees me. Center stage, full of rage and nothing but contempt for my current state.

She blushes at the sight of my half naked body, seemingly unfazed by the destruction that I left in my wake.

I sigh and fix my robe, walking towards her and collect the documents that need addressed. With a dismissive wave, I have her exit stage left and leave me to wallow in my own abandonment.

 

While it’s understandable the reaction that my presence receives, sometimes I long for something more than just mindless fucking for the sake of the art.

Though that’s not on brand, I suppose.

 

I make my way to my study to start the day, sans coffee.

 

 

Surrounded by paperwork at my desk, the weight of isolation settles over me like a suffocating blanket.

Each document serves as a reminder of my solitary existence, a relentless cycle of empty hookups and endless tasks. Despite a yearning for companionship, the emptiness of the room offers no solace, only echoes of my own thoughts. With each signature, I affirm my solitude, yet moments of vulnerability pierce the monotony.