Twelve minutes past five is an unusual time to brush your teeth, but that's when I do it, because I go to bed at six o'clock, and I've figured out through trial and error that if I brush my teeth at that time, it gives me the perfect amount of time to get in my pajamas, tuck into bed with a nice book, and then masturbate until I fall asleep. It's all part of my ritual. My daily routine. It keeps me sane. To some it might seem arduous to live your life to such an extreme degree of specificity, but I need to emphasise that any deviation from this routine really fucks with my head.
So when on this particular day, at ten minutes past five, I heard a knock at my door, you can imagine my displeasure. Of course my first instinct is to ignore it, but the knocking persists, and so I am forced to put abandon my ritual for one night and open the door. It's the complex manager. She asks if I've heard anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspicious. I tell her no, and she looks relieved. Her eyes are dry and her skin is fragile. I ask if anything's wrong and she nods and hurries down the stairs without answering.
I lock up and head to the bathroom, eager to complete the ritual. By this point it is thirteen minutes past. This means I only have time to brush my teeth for one minute if I want to make it into bed with my pajamas on by five fifteen. As you can imagine, I am out of my mind with anxiety. Cutting half of my tooth brushing time could cause some serious long term damage. I must book an appointment with my dentist. I quickly calm myself down and return to the warming embrace of routine. I weigh out my options and decide that the benefits of an extra minute of tooth brushing time is worth the loss of reading and masturbation time.
I finish reading at 19 pages that night instead of my usual 20, and then I start whackin it, and I mean really whackin it. I smack around that motherfucker like a bitch who owes a pimp money. I jack it faster than a black guy in Compton who spots an unattended Lexus. I'm just really beating my dick with my hand so fast and then all of the sudden there's another knock at the door. I close my eyes and pretend I don't hear it but the knocking on the door is so persistent that it drowns out the noise of my closed fist slapping against my balls.
When I go to answer the door, I catch a glimpse of the clock in the living room and it reads 5:20. It's the manager again and I get a feeling of déjà vu. I look at the clock again, it says it's 5:12. I'm ready to masturbate. I pull out my dick and slide my hand aggressively up and down my penis. As I reach the point of climax, I open my eyes. The manager is there in front of me. She is naked but her breasts are covered by her long blonde dreadlocks and her tattooed fingers conceal her vagina. I'm about to splooge.
I close my eyes and moan from the nearing ecstasy but when I open my eyes again I'm inside a coffin. The coffin shakes and dirt falls through the cracks. I cough and dust blows off my chest. My fingernails are long and my beard is tangled. Stiff from rigor mortis, my erection sticks out in front of me, a cruel taunt from the demons of fate. I close my eyes and open them again and hope that this is another nightmare that I can shake myself awake from. I open my eyes a third time only to be confronted with the overwhelming emptiness of the darkness that fills the space under the glossy pine that stretches over my corpse like a bridge busy with crossing travelers and cargo moving from one place to the next. If they told me that death was this boring I probably wouldn't have killed myself. I unfocus my consciousness and relapse into a DMT-induced nightmare of my former life from which I will eventually awake, only to be returned to a pitch black box in the ground.