Impasse

The consequences of these days weighs heavily on Rory, for some reason. He woke up after Ireena, in his own apartment, in which he had no roommate either. It was Sunday morning. He read the newspaper. He drank coffee. He watched inane Sunday morning TV. He smoked a joint by himself. He wandered around his apartment laughing to himself. He went to his CD collection and admired it. He went to his book collection, and he took out a couple books of philosophy he intended to rifle through stoned. The meaning of the text never revealed itself to him in this state, but he found it much easier to draw his own interpretations, as improperly sensed as they might be. All too often, he came up with a perverted interpretation, which he would then laugh off, telling himself, “God I’m fucked up.”
He went outside his apartment and walked around his neighborhood. He went to a record store and bought a couple albums he used to own, but that had been stolen from him. To be sure—Either/Or and Pinkerton. Once he had these albums again, he went back home, and listened to them, rolling another joint between albums. He almost started to laugh and cry at the same time.
It was dark now, and almost dinner time. The day had rushed by without general activity. Rory felt like calling up Luther, or Charles to ask for advice, but then he realized that neither of their advice was to be taken. Luther would tell him to lie, and Charles would tell him to seize the day, which was at this point, far too uncool for Rory. Seizing the day required something to say. He already said everything he needed to say to Ireena.
Rory suddenly got depressed and forgot about eating dinner. He tried to go to bed, but he lay awake for four hours until his body gave out. After the first hour, he tried to focus on something to help him sleep. After the second hour, he started to get mad at himself for not being able to fall asleep. This led to a barrage of insults directed at himself, inside his mind, occasionally breaking out audibly from his mouth, which probably made him sound like he was schizophrenic to his upstairs and downstairs neighbors, whose walls were quite thin. After the third hour, he reached full scale suicidal depression. He thought about how he couldn’t do anything right, not even sleep. He thought about how Ireena would never have cause to like him. He thought about Spencer going to jail for weed, and about how easily it could happen to him. He thought about how much fun everything was the night before, everyone in his apartment. He thought about whether or not Luther had gotten with Penelope. Of course, he knew the back story, and he was worried about violence. He thought about his cousin, and how he was just starting to admire his flippancy towards the world. He thought about how much he hated both of his parents and his brothers and sisters. He thought Marcus was an interesting figure to make an appearance the night before. He suddenly wanted to puke. A fresh stream of self-criticisms came flooding out. He felt like he was trying to shake out of his skin. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He thought about masturbating but decided that took too much effort at this point. He pulled on his hair a little bit, tossed off the comforter, looked at the clock, 3:34 AM. The pressure to fall asleep early enough in order to wake up for work made him want to kill himself. Rory considered this to be a pathetic reason for suicide.
But if you were one of his upstairs or downstairs neighbors, through the thin walls, you might have heard him saying things like:
“End it, end it, just fucking end it, I don’t want it anymore.”