Fortune cookie.

I walk in the door Sunday morning at 8:25 AM after being picked up by my mom (yes, my mother) from work. I've only got about an hour worth of sleep from last night running, so I'm easily distracted by a pile of fortune cookies left over on the counter from last nights dinner. I think we had Pick Up Stix.

I sit down, put on Jungles by Holy Fuck, and uninterestedly peel the plastic off, and then crack open the fortune cookie.

I stop, dead in my tracks, just as the tone bank on the track kicks in, as if Holy Fuck has written this particular song specifically knowing that this moment in time would happen--some divine intervention has happened. I stare in shock at the cookie, inspect it a second time, and realize in horror what is happening to me: the fortune cookie is empty. There is no tiny piece of paper with a fortune scrawled on it awaiting me.

Sweat begins to form on my forehead and I can feel hyperventilation coming on slowly. I've learned to deal with panic disorder and anxiety attacks, but all my methods of curbing it are miles away now. A void begins to form near the back of my head--where I can't see it--and everything is drawn to it. Everything is being sucked in slowly around me, and somehow my eyes and mind are still transfixed on the empty sweet. I think I am beginning to drool. What is happening right now? My hands become stiff and cold, and I can't feel them anymore. My limbs become static and I feel like I am dissolving. An unstoppable force has met an immovable object in the universe. I don't even know if I've taken a breath in the past five... ten...? minutes.

Bam.

The drums kick in and I suddenly, alertly snap out of it. My forehead is dry. I can feel my limbs, and my heart rate feels normal when I check my pulse. Holy Fuck delivers once again, and as I regain touch with the music and my own body, I stare down at the fortune cookie and start to breathe again. It's only been a few seconds.

I shove the entire cookie--both pieces--into my mouth like a rabid animal and gobble it down. I've decided that this incident is both insignificant and not worth mentioning to anyone. I become ashamed at my tendency to read into events like these. The cookie tastes stale and sweet.

Stale and sweet, I think... a fitting end.

A day at the office.

My vision slowly returns as I lower my hands and grip my box cutter, the glare of a red-and-white-nightmare creeps into my vision after I'm done rubbing my eyes--

I'm at work.

"Hmm," I groggily murmur. It's more of a question than a statement of curiosity.

Detergent... air fresheners... cut up cardboard boxes... the sound of a pallet jack being taken off lock and rolling across the white and gray linoleum, off in the distance an illegal alien is cackling in Spanish to a co-worker, and a long, drawn-out vocal yawn coming from my mouth. This is Target store 2304, conveniently attached to the Westminster Mall off of Bolsa Ave. and Edwards, Westminster, California.

It's 5:51 AM, and my shift is only one hour and fifty-one minutes long thus far. At 6:00 on the dot I will hear an announcement over the intercom to take a break. I'm working for the flow team; the company sluts who have the tedious and crucially important task that only a fucking caveman or chimp could comprehend: open box, place item on shelf, throw box away. You repeat this process until your eyeballs melt and ooze happily out of their sockets, your brain has rotted from its core and seeps merrily out of your nostrils, and the fanged demon that lives on your back has no life left to suck from your already-lifeless soul.

On the bright side, the new girl they hired today is a nice change from the long-time early morning crew I've seen for the past two years. Nice ass, decent tits, a thousand-watt smile, and very pretty eyes. I imagine myself dating her, cuddling after sex, and I can almost fabricate a sense of happiness that could only be true if I were to actually live this secret fantasy out. I will never talk to this girl.

Detergent... citrus-scented air freshener... Febreze... Yeah. I'm in the chemical department. Anything from Downy fabric softener to Tide detergent, from Raid bug killer to mops and brooms, this department is geared toward making shit smell like roses and is perfect for a seemingly perfect housewife to clean the mailman's cumstains out of her husbands sheets.

--

...tossing hand grenades in to Hello Kitty stores... committing noble suicide to save humanity... eating Top Ramen out of the pan in front of my house...

"Sean."

Little Arab boys shouting "Anasara!" at me in the streets of Libya... running from vampires in the park... gripping an AK-47 and unloading on--

"Sean! Wake up man, break is over--"

"...and in Jesus name in pray, amen," I slowly lift my head from the break room table, suddenly aware of the moving chairs and shuffling of people filing out of the break room eagerly (God knows why) to get back to work.

"Very funny," Junior says with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "Daniel needs to see you in his office."

"For what?" I'm genuinely curious and awake now.

"Not sure bro, he needs to see you right now. After you're done jerking him off I need you to finish up in chemical and head upstairs, I need you in toys today." My supervisor is always keen on details and motivation.

"Yeah. Toys... yeah... I can do that... Toys..." I'm already spacing out.

I leave the break room and go directly past my bosses office, completely ignoring the fact he has successfully requested my presence, and head back to the sales floor. Walking past the escalators, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the frozen food aisle's glass door. Fucking Christ on his fucking throne I am getting--

"Hey, prick." Craig Hartigan.

"Daniel wants to see you, Craiger," I immediately say to him without thinking. Craig's about 50 or 51, but doesn't really look it. He's a slender white guy, good attitude, and shares the same distaste for the company we work for as I do. I've got a bit of a shorter temper, and Craig is much more well educated.

"Daniel? The hell for?"

I shrug and jerk my thumb in the direction of his office, "Not sure pal."

He ignores me and heads back to the toilet paper aisle, where he will continue to stock merchandise until 8:00 AM when the store opens and hundreds of pissing-and-shitting customers will come to stock up on softened two-ply tissue paper to run across their assholes and vaginas, or blow their slimy filthy mucous on to that seeps out from their spider-legged evil brains--

"I'm not in a good space... to... day..." I'm humming to myself in a non-identifiable melody. I look to my right, still walking back to my work center, and make eye contact with Maricel. Maricel is a middle-aged Hispanic woman, probably Mexican, and at one time was probably pretty attractive--sans five kids and twenty years of course.

"Would you like me to light your head on fire?" I ask smiling and nodding to her, still walking. "Gasoline, fire? Fuego? Yes? Would you like that...?" She smiles, gives me a confused look, and with her head cocked to the side, gives me an unsure shrug, suggesting she doesn't understand. I get back to my aisle, finally, and suddenly I am charged and ready to work. Within a split second, I feel ready to tackle any task today and prove my worth to the corporation. "I'm a fucking STUD!" I shout at the top of my lungs as I quickly swoop down, pick up my box cutter, and begin to open a box of red carpet cleaner, one of which the canisters has exploded and resembles human brains inside the box.

Tossing it to the side, I grab for the next box on the floor of the aisle, and pretend the boxes stacked along aisle D2 are miniature buildings. I become a giant robot, controlled by unseen foes to this imaginary city, and begin to gut every building and eat the inhabitants inside.

I just don't get out enough, I think to myself, laughing.