Sidney Sees the Sun

I wake up from a restless sleep in the creaky single bed that has yet to offer me any afternoon delights or mid-morning pleasures, for that matter. This headache is permanent; my mouth indefinitely dry as I swish my tongue around only to find unexplainable sores on my gums and cheeks. Despite the lack of windows in my rented bedroom, I know it's cold and empty outside; the storm far from relenting. I'm dressed in the wrinkled and stained blue jeans from the night before. Traces of spilt liquor, resin, ash, sweat and earwax occupy various threadbare spots on the worn blue denim.
Nevertheless I am strangely comfortable sporting my own filth; an overflowing laundry basket and backpack full of liberally-sound assignments, taking up most of my floor space. The brown frayed carpet contains vomit and semen stains evenly dispersed with the dust bunnies. My uncut toenails crinkle when my feet touch the floor, rolling out of bed for a day that has not one discernible direction or plan up around the bend.
I first head towards the bathroom, noticing a lack of items that remain in Adam's bedroom. Only the rusted metal bed frame and empty bookshelf are intact; a skeletal structure of the dumbfounded college experience. The bathroom is mildew-ridden; the toilet seat covered in thick black pubic hair as I aim for the center and let my half-hearted morning erection descend back down to half mass. The sound of the water in the bowl is like drums on the wall as I make a swirling motion with my weighty stream.
Once finished, I wash my hands clean of the previous night and contemplate masturbation, before noticing the splotchy pink blood patches in the sink. Their origin is unbenknowest to me, but for some reason or another I think I should know why or how they got there, as if I am the sole human being responsible for such discoloration. My curiosity soon subsides, though, just as it has every morning since before I can remember.
I walk towards the living room and am confused by the sight of two skinny blondes 69-ing on my cigarette burned couch. I stand in the threshold watching them enjoy their complimentary tongue strokes, not in the least bit turned on by such vivid foreplay. Their moans and movements are programmed; faces lacking unique details, but instead glossed over with tanned and plastic delicacy. Their ribs stick out and are barely covered in skin; the shear lack of passion in their bobbing heads ultimately making me decide to dress in my winter attire and trudge down the frozen sidewalks of Fayette.
Freeman Avenue is a wasteland of used condoms, microwave burrito wrappers and empty 40 ounce bottles all being freely blown in the wind. Front porches are singed with the shadows of soft kisses, soon escalating to sloppy petting in the living room; the vague outline of love barely visible, like the imprints of skulls and bones in the Hiroshima walls. My footprints are red in the snow as if my back is leaking liquid, leaving behind a trail of fleshy breadcrumbs for some intriguing and unbalanced angel to follow blindly.
The sun is reflective off of the rocky piles of slush, reaching higher by the minute. I walk up and down the street past gyrating bodies in open storefront windows, or gulping foam from the bar taps. Faceless forms fuck in alleyways as diseased fluids are passed from person to person or left behind to casually freeze in the snow. Prayers and rants are out of sequence and in need of translation. My headphones are broken and won't even play in mono anymore.
By the time I finally arrive at Lane's porch, I've forgotten to breathe in my own nerves, but rather coldly knock in an affectionate rhythm before realizing that she either hasn't gotten home yet or is fucking a stranger. In any case, I'll sit and wait until it's time for our routine brunch and session of bullshit, as if this is where I've been waiting to arrive at my whole life.