Captain’s log: December 23, 2016. Monica is making brownies. Plain. No peanut butter or nuts or special seed. We’re getting in the Christmas spirit despite a lack of means. This is simple living. We haven’t left the gulag under White House North in weeks. Sometimes I think I can hear the streets all the way below here. I’m approximating the date. I hope we haven’t missed Christmas already. I wasn’t even able to participate in Black Friday or Cyber Monday, so that was a drag. Don’t let it get you down, Rooster, imagine a world of no possessions. It’s actually not hard at all because we have nothing, nothing but rations, some hay, a cot, drip water, a hot plate, and the metal-feathered tree they gave us after some hectoring and spur clawing of guards. I got one of them so bad I think they went blind. They will never see their loved ones again. At least we still have a fighting chance.
—Can you help me decorate the tree? I can’t reach the top. We need to dress it.
—Monica… we don’t have any ornaments.
—Oh, stop it. You again with the not having anything bit. You’re such a tortured soul, we get it.
—What is the point…
—Maybe stop being a downer much?
—I’m being realistic much?
—More like pessimistic much? Cynical? Come on, Roo. It’s Christmas. Get in the spirit.
I get up, check the brownies on the hot plate (they’re burned), and grab the wad of napkins that Monica is convinced is a family heirloom passed through her mother’s side going back thousands of years. At least there isn’t too much food on it. At least our daily meme digests remain unblemished and stacked in the corner. We just got Dat Boi the other day. Funny! I loved the cop that started breakdancing, too. But I’ve started drooling in my sleep and it wakes her up, and I feel bad. I really feel awful because my wife hasn’t been anything but splendid and pleasant in the face of such despair, no hope. I have… I haven’t…
—The tree died. Already. I can’t believe we got a lemon.
—Monica, it’s made of metal.
—Well they still should’ve given us something better.
I feel like my wife is losing it. Although I’ve long lost count of the times that I’ve gone crazy, or people have told me that I’ve gone crazy, or I cease to exist or have any influence on this plane of reality. You have to open your pineal gland. I was talking to my friend about minerals before any of this… I can’t…
—You’ve barely touched your brownie.
—It’s like a hockey puck.
—Well I did the best I could.
—I know, honey. I know.
—They’re not bad.
—Yeah they’re actually not that bad.
—I think I’m happy now.
—I don’t care that we have to fight this. As long as we do it together.
—I love you.
—I love you, too. We’ll make it through this. It’s nearly New Year’s.
—Right? It’s like, wow, harrowing much?
—Yes. My dear. M’lady. I tip my hat to you.
—You sure you didn’t mix up your tenses again?
—I hope I’m not gas-lighting you.
—It’s an electric hot plate, honey.
—You seem a little crazy lately.
—Well these memes are too funny! I sometimes struggle to even.
—Did you see the one about the cop breakdancing? I love that.
—It was the only thing that made me smile today.
—What about me?
—You make me smile every day.
—We will do this together.
—No more pain.
—I can’t wait to [REDACTED].
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