Meet Marvin

A sunny day in august it suddenly hit Marvin: He wasn’t fighting lazyness or indifference. His real problem was a subconscious desire to self-destruct. He always paid his bills too late, even though he considered himself a punctual guy. He wasn’t a wrist-cutter either, yet every time he chopped his precious tomatoes he stared a good long while at the knife, transfixed. Every single night, as he immersed his face in the basin water, he fantasized of raising his head to see the darkened outline of a serial killer behind him in the mirror.

Suicide, naturally, was not an option. He knew he was imploding, gradually, that he just had to wait for insanity, or something else entirely, to set in. It could take years, the thought of which completely exhausted him. In the meantime, his entire purpose of existence was simply passing time. Getting a job, paying the bills (even if he never did it on time) was simply a result of his ever-diminishing sense of self-preservation, as well as his inexplicable need to calm everyone around him. The effect was astounding. Even if he stated his general infuriation with life every other time he spoke with someone, his family and friends were completely hypnotized by him seemingly contributing to society three times a week by pushing paper in the company of liars like himself. Work also served as a sort of smokescreen, a way to sometimes fool himself into believing he could make it through, survive existence unscathed. But the illusion always faltered, since it failed to provide any sort of long-term satisfaction. Like everything else occupying his drained mind, the pleasure he gained from structure was short-lived.

Despite all of his undirected hatred, though, he didn’t really have any problems getting through most days. He was easily distracted, which meant he counted on TV every weekday afternoon, and obscene amounts of alcohol every weekend. Of course, his newfound realization could possibly upset this fragile balance. Previously, on his life, he had considered his negative impulses perfectly compatible with a relatively normal lifestyle. He’d never been at odds with himself, or so he had always assumed. Self-destruction, self-hatred manifested, was simply unacceptable. Apathy, laziness; these things he could fight, and he tried to, every single day. How could he combat himself? If every action he took was subconsiously meant to hinder his own happiness, how could he reconcile this with taking any action at all? If his actual purpose in life was to undermine his own ambition, how could he justify having ambitions at all? How would he separate the things that would serve his stated goal of survival, and those self-delusions designed to endorse his own misery? He wasn’t simply killing time anymore, his prey, it had finally become clear, was his own self-respect and fragile state of contentment. It was a mess.

After a long, good think, Marvin decided to not do anything that might be a hidden move by his subconscious to subvert his being again. So he quit his job, stopped paying his bills and decided to never leave his apartment again. He would be damned if he would let himself ruin his life.