Mosquito Spawn

He peered into his egg drop soup. He tried not to get his snot in it. It came with the combo meal that he got from the 5′ 2″ fresh-off-the-boat Cantonese girl he thought was cute. She never judged him for getting for getting Chinese food four times a week. Chopsticks, right?, she’d say seeming like she had marbles in her mouth, happily laying two in the bag for the overweight fuck. He was eating alone. Again. He was simply another customer, and she could barely hear his pathetic murmurs through her knock-off airpods. T-thanks!

The pint of egg drop soup was what he needed. Growing up, partially out of parsimony and partially out of poverty, his family never went to see the doctor. What was the point? Doc would tell you that you are sick. Here’s some antibiotics. Now go pay the co-pay. The true doctor was in egg drop soup and the ultimate sugary cure – orange juice. Tropicana, extra pulp. Drink a whole fucking gallon. 300 grams of sugar, fresh from Florida™. You’ll be fine.

The egg drop soup loomed on the table. It was filled with dirty dishes, PBR cans, an empty Brita filter that beeped red. The piss color soup looked back at him. He candidly made a whirlpool out of it. Pushed his chopsticks through the broth thicker than an Instagram PAWG. In the soup he saw a reflection of himself. The bits of dubious egg in the oleaginous broth looked like the way mosquito-spawn swim in stagnant water. Looming like flotsam. Dropped by the ship’s crew into the water to offset ship weight. Chunks of the cure, just floating away. This is what I needed.

The doctor isn’t for you. He lied to himself. Symptoms. Coughing. Green plbem. Spit. Spit in anything around you. On the Bernie 2016 t-shirt. In the PBR can. In the cup. Spit like an underpaid pornstar just trying it out. More soup. More orange juice. The voice of his father rang in his head. Suck it up, you’re going to school tomorrow. Symptoms. Chest pain. Headaches. Need some head-on. Apply directly to the head.

With sickness came the fever dreams, the laying awake, the waking up at ungodly hours. He finished his pork fried rice and boneless BBQ spare ribs. When he spoke the Cantonese girl on the phone he left out the articles too. Pork fried rice egg roll. Phone number now. No need for the extra space. It was a waste anyway. He left soup out. Laid on futon. Pidgin English made sense.

The days drew by. Congested chest down to a stuffy nose. Blow it out on a t-shirt. I’ll be good tomorrow. He hadn’t showered in four days. He didn’t care. All he wished he had was that acne-ridden Cantonese girl from the Chinese restaurant. She’d smell like the uncleaned fryer. They’d have little spawn. Like the mosquito larvae in the egg drop soup. You’ll be fine.


You know the sound of the original alarm that you find on iPhones? The cataclysmic, nuclear warfare impending beep? That’s not the one that is haunting me right now. The one that’s haunting me is the stupid fucking fire alarm that needs to be installed in every home that renters are in. It keeps going off, despite all attempts to stop it. Haunted isn’t even the right word to describe it. It’s like that person who you don’t want to talk to who incessantly hits you up. “Hey bro, how you been?” I’ve been great, now fuck off – please.

The worst part of the whole fucking ordeal is that it doesn’t have that sound like a nuclear holocaust. It sound like a basketball game. Sneakers rubbing against the wood. If you are ever watching a basketball game with friends, bring that up. You’ll never be able to hear anything ever again. The sounds of sneakers rubbing their third world recycled plastic against the wood. That’s what this stupid alarm sounds like. Except it’s shorter, stark and you can hear it through two pillows suffocating you like Antonin Scalia.

It’s like one’s consciousness. I tried to shut it off. That’s what most people will tell you to do first. At first I thought it was the carbon monoxide alarm. Part of me hoped that it would kill me. Silently. Like a hit marker. Tisk. It would be over, 360 no scope off the top of rust, and somebody else would have to smell the gaseous excrement and clean up all the dirty dishes. I threw the monoxide alarm in the freezer. It was the fire alarm.

It’s a single beep. The thing must be going haywire or something. I tried to time it. I laid awake in bed last night. One minute? Two minutes? Five? I couldn’t count. Thanks liberal arts. It won’t stop. Beep. Now you’re in the bathroom? Beep. Making an English muffin? Beep. Trying to read? Beep. It will never leave you alone. Beep. Like consciousness, it’s with you every waking moment and you can’t stop it. Besides, you know, smashing it.

The back of the toilet seat

Roth just finished jerking off to another nameless woman on the internet. He pulled up his pants, wiped his cum on an old T-shirt and rolled of his floor mattress. Roth shuffled through the hallway to the bathroom to piss out the rest of his genetic material. He dared not make eye contact with his roommate in the living room.

The aroma of cigarettes seeped through the vents from the old women in the downstairs apartment. Toothpaste splattered on the sink mirror. A lonely q-tip dipped in earwax sat next to the unused toilet bowl brush. Roth’s eyes locked on the back of the toilet seat. It was covered in a trail of shit leading into the bowl. He directed his yellow piss on it, in a lackadaisical attempt to clean it off.

As his target practice went on, his mind became locked on their state of living. Roth and his roommate didn’t clean, didn’t vacuum, didn’t even have dish soap at one point. It was pathetic. As he looked into the bowl, and then into himself, realizing he lived in a shithole. He slipped his dick back into his pants and went into the living room.

Only in a handful of instances did he and his roommate, Kurt, have schedules that aligned. This was one of them – four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Kurt worked nights at a convenience store for prole-tier wages; enough to buy energy drinks and a few one dollar cheeseburgers a week. Marx would’ve been right if he said video games were the opiates of the masses. It wasn’t opium, but microtransactions and endless serotonin releases. Kurt and Roth met in a gen-ed class they had together at the university.

Roth sat down on the futon while Kurt was focused on winning another game of Smash. Ceaseless bags of McDonalds lay on the coffee table. Dog hair from Kurt’s 10 year old mutt lined the floors. Three TVs sat on the entertainment station, with two CRTs for the GameCube and one digital one for the newer consoles. Kurt lost another game, trying to justify his use of bottom-tier characters to himself.

“When’s the last time you vacuumed?” Roth asked with a sigh in his voice. He knew the answer. It was more a heuristic to get Kurt to do some cleaning.

“It’s been a while, I think like, two or three weeks ago.” stated Kurt.

“Do you think you could clean the bathroom or do some dishes?”

When Roth walked out of his room earlier, he didn’t make eye contact with his roommate. He made eye contact with with the interminable pile of dishes in the sink. A sanctuary city for bacteria and a Calais-level refugee camp for mold. It was unbearable, but neither did anything about it.

“Sure, I can do it tomorrow” said Kurt.

Roth nodded his head in agreement, and Kurt’s next game started. The conversation ended as quick as it started.

That phrase was the phrase of a whole generation. Tomorrow. The next few weeks, besides the bare minimum, the living situation remained stagnant. The trash overflowed, the dishes in the sink applied for asylum, and the shit-lined toilet bowl remained, well, shit-lined. And each time Roth pissed, he pissed on the shit stain.

What’s in a name?

So what the fuck is a memoir? What is a zoomer? Memoirs of a zoomer?

Let me be precise about this – I bought the website last night as an offering to myself. Everyone, my peers, my professors, my under-educated parents – they all told me that if I disconnect myself from academia that my wit will worsen. That I’ll become complacent with a sick linecook job making $11/hr; just enough to go to the bar, pay my rent and have no savings left over. My brain will ossify with nothing left but dopamine receptors.

This is a bipartite agreement here. The first part is to them. But only out of spite. I won’t lose my skills. I will continue to read and do all the other “big brain” things that keep me sharp. I promise I won’t play video games till two in the morning. I promise I won’t eat MSG rich Chinese food four days a week. I promise I won’t jerk off four times a day. The second part is to write, for the sake of getting better at it.

Anyway, back to the point. Memoirs. A historical account of something from a time period. Supposed to add to the retelling of an event. You know, letters during the Civil War or some shit. This is a memoir of living in the modern world, the age of the internet. A memoir of nothing particular besides living in a time with no convictions and a dying world. A flow of incessant information bubbling up. I wanna vomit.

That’s what a memoir is. And a zoomer? Well, it’s a riff off the memes about boomers, doomers, gloomers – if you’re reading this, then you know. In lieu of doxxing myself, I was born in the late 90s. Late enough to have no recognition of 9/11. Early enough for the good times in the late 2000s. Vivid reveries of the times my parents divorced, my Nintendo DS, Modern Warfare 2 and the financial crash that eradicated our savings.

I am a manifestation of Gen Z. So put those two phrases together and you have memoirs of a zoomer. I’m kicking myself in the head for such a stupid fucking name. Nevertheless, I’m gonna stick with it. The purpose of this website is catalog the machinations of my mind. At least this website has a purpose.

I am zoomer, and this is my memoir.

First post, best post

Oh boy, my very own blog! This is it, folks! I can finally engage myself in long diatribes against anything I wish. Well, the first thing to chastise is myself.

Yesterday was an important day in the life of a modern man. I graduated from college. It’s a right of passage, you know. It’s important. Grabbing that ceremonial degree was the best thing that ever happened to me. I can’t help but ruminate on the skit School Spirit 1 by Kanye on graduation.

In the track, the narrator goes on, sardonically, about his degree. Working in the GAP. Finally becoming the secretary’s secretary who got the job from her uncle. And the nasty fucking truth is that it is my future too. Liberal arts brought me damn near nothing. I learned the majority of the material on my own. By virtue of Wikipedia and YouTube University.

The girls at the bar this weekend told me I had a bright future. That I was a funny, intelligent guy. That I had a lot going for me. My family too. But what the fuck is it for? Anything short of philosophical suicide in the belief of God, there isn’t a meaning to any of this. It’s exhausting. As Sartre put it, we are condemned to freedom. I have nothing to do this fine Sunday. No work, nothing.

Everyone has left me, and I suppose that the only person I truly have is between my ears. Ringing thoughts just like my tinnitus. You know, I sort of wish Descartes was right. I wish I was a solipsism was right. It’s only me. But it isn’t.

Alright, said in the same fashion as when I’m trying to leave a conversation. This blog post was disjointed at best. It’s the first post though. The first day of the rest of my life. It’s the line of demarcation that expresses the transitory state in which I find myself. It’s raining. The birds are singing. It smells like worms and mulch. Anyway, welcome to the page. First post, best post, as they say.