Speak of the Devil

Warning: This is some sort of autobiography.

My name is Robert Graves, and I'm twenty-one. I'm a university dropout who pretends to still be studying Psychology so that my parent's don't stop paying my rent, and I spend all my days at home getting as drunk on cheap alcohol as an average alcoholic can get, and smoking the cheapest cigarettes a broke man can find. I then spend my nights in bars that I probably can't afford, adding drinks to a tab that I'll never be able to repay. I'm six feet tall, unshaven, and I can guarantee that whenever you read this, my hair will be a mess. It's dirty blond, by the way. And it needs a cut.

I live with my roommates, Steve and Emily, in a small apartment that probably wasn't made for more than two people. Steve studies the same way I do, and still pretends that his health is better than mine.Emily studies law, and dislikes both of us for not doing the dishes,never cleaning after ourselves, making the apartment smell like an ashtray, and generally being jackasses. We pay the rent, though, so she usually just avoids us. Living like this, we had a more or less stable life together, and somehow managed to survive for as long as we did without Emily killing us or kicking us out.

It sounds like a sad life, I know. The kind of life that no one wants to lead, a life of pure abandon, boredom, regret, poor decisions, and yet more regret. The kind of life where you realize that somewhere along the line, you just gave up on it. But to those of you who think that my life sounds like the kind of life I just described, let me tell you: it is.

Life is boring. Nothing happens for days, and days, and weeks, then months, and then years, until...Nothing. Still nothing. It's a vicious, vicious circle, that spins on endless nothingness, until one day you blink, and you realize you don't want to put up with this anymore – and it's only ten am – and you decide to go back to sleep, hoping to never wake up, or that tomorrow is better. Of course, tomorrow isn't better, and you know this why? Because you did wake up. So you just lost both of your wishes. This goes on for a few days, maybe weeks, until you realize that life isn't getting better,and you might as well give up. Your studies, hopes, and dreams, turn into alcohol and cigarettes, and one night stands, and God-awful hangovers, and you repeat this cycle every single day thinking to yourself that heart failure, lung cancer, and liver poisoning might be better than trying to outlive the clock, because screwing yourself up like this is the only way you can feel alive, and–

Sorry.I got caught up in my thoughts, for a second.

The thing is, life is boring: nobody gets all the adventure that you see in movies. You just live bored, and die bored. The end. No sequel to that, either. Who would pay to see another, anyway?

At least, that's what I thought.

I've written all of this down, now, because they asked me to; Because they caught me, and because they're making me. They asked me how I ended up like this. How my life was so much more different that I ended up here. What made me special. Hell, I don't know...

I'm surprised they even have paper. Or a pen. I mean, damn, they're efficient for–

Focus.Don't lose your train of thought. That's how they get you. If you lose your train of thought, they can get in. That's why they'remaking you write this. This is a test. Focus. You can do it.

Let me tell you, if you thought that the part of my life I just told you about seemed bad, you're in for a treat: it only gets worse, trust me.

But I need to focus. Write this down. Like I'm telling a story, right? Pretend I'm writing this for an audience. A public. Focus.

OK.Got it. Focused. Supposing you're all real, and listening to me: are you all ready?