Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

What's the Point?

There’s nothing to do anymore.
Really, there isn’t.
I woke up this morning, bored.
I thought to myself,
“Go to a movie.”
What’s the point of doing that?
It’s just sitting.
It’s not really doing anything.
Besides, I usually hate every movie I see
and then I wish I could have my two hours back,
and my nine fifty.
O.k. then, why don’t you clean?
Cleaning’s always good,
and it’s so productive.
That’s stupid, I thought.
I have to clean tomorrow before I leave.
If I clean today, I’ll still end up cleaning tomorrow too.
O.k. then, why don’t you write?
Write what? I thought.
And for whom?
There’s no one to write for.
I’ve written everything I want to write about.
So, go workout.
Burn some calories.
I already did that.
Well, then, there’s always the mall.
I hate the mall.
I wander around like a dying fish
looking for water.
I stare at everything and wonder why I don’t want any of it.
Just how much pleasure is a leather bag and a pair of boots supposed to give me,
and for how long?
Go to the library and get a good book.
Great idea,
except the book I want is checked out,
and the last time I went to the library it took me fifteen minutes to get out of the parking garage
all because there was only one guard on duty working the gate.
“It’s lunch time,” the disgruntled guard said.
“Why can’t they get someone to fill in when the other person goes to lunch,” I asked?
“Why don’t I just stop eating lunch all together?” he quipped.
Yeah, there’s no way I’m going there today.
I hate every choice I come up with.
I get so desperate I even call my sister.
“So, what are you doing?”I asked casually.
“Getting ready for my date,” she said.
She’s trying to buy panties at Macy’s.
Not because she needs new panties,
she just doesn’t want to do her laundry.
I hang up.
She’s too much for me.
I tell myself to come up with something I’ve never done.
Challenge myself.
Well, I’ve never gone skydiving.
I guess I could go skydiving.
But why would I want to do that?
I hate things like that.
Either I die on the way down,
or I survive and vomit when I hit the ground.
That doesn’t sound appealing.
Wait a minute,
I know,
I could go to that new ice cream shop that sells twelve-dollar-a-pint ice creams.
That’s what I’ll do.
Oh, wait,
I can’t do that,
I’m lactose intolerant
and sugar makes me sick.