Waste Management

I am 6. I have not got a name. I am moron. To be more precise, there may be some name assigned to me somewhere, but I have not got an idea of it. My mother does not call me by name, and practically does not talk to me at all. Why does she keep me in the apartment, why does not she send me to an asylum... Presumably because she earns money from our government for her keeping me, disabled from childhood. She would better send me to such.

All my life goes by within one room with a clothes chest, a bed, a chair and a TV.

The TV is mounted high on the wall, almost on the ceiling, it is switched on around the clock, and it displays always the same channel.

The door of my room is locked from outside in order to prevent me from damaging the other part of the apartment, I am not allowed to go to the street because "it is a shame to expose such a moron to the neighborhood".

I watch just ads on TV. It is rather interesting from the point of view of searching and analyzing of the codes of video-linguistic neuro-programming that are being used to sell all those toothbrushes, pads, Viagra pills, cars... Some ads are just fine art pieces of VLNP, but the most of these are just dull crap.

The stuff in between the ads - news, series, shows - is a mere joke of a jerk, total nonsense destined to brainwash the watchers with hedgehog's brains.

All in all, I have made two colliding conclusions:

- those people who swallow all these programs have really got hedgehog's brains inside their heads;

- those people who make all these programs believe all other people have got hedgehog's brains (this latter is the exact belief my mother, her friends in a neighborhood and doctors in clinic do have about me).

Also, there are some ignorant motherfuckers inhabiting our building who pound the radiators all nights long with something rather resembling a barbell or an iron. And at the midnight hour someone uses to dance a step in ski boots right upstairs above my room.

This makes my sleep absolutely impossible and my head madly aching. No matter how hard I asked, my mother - an all-out bitch - does not give me Anlagin. So I invented my own method of killing the pain - it is in knocking myself on the head with a plastic bottle. I need to do it permanently.

I have not got a single book, not even a newspaper.

Everything I know, apart from the things I made up myself, I know it from TV. But there is a lot more I knew from the "Chemistry & life" magazine I incidentally discovered behind the wallpapers.

These golden-flower-decorated pink wallpapers were here forever, and did always annoy me deadly. Fortunately, the glue turned out to be trashy so in a few months I tore wallpapers off the walls up to the level of my height + my upraised hand, despite all the outcries of my mom. And the pages of "Chemistry & life" appeared to be everywhere behind the wallpapers.

I have read everything unveiled. And I have even learned to read the upside-down-glued pages at a normal speed.

Now I am going to dig the walls higher, standing on the chair.

But yet there is one thing in the world that really lights the sun over my null and void life.

I call this feature a "Night flight to Venus": I climb up atop the clothes-chest, I turn my back to the bed down under, I close my eyes and... take off...

- - - - -

Suddenly the lock opened with a snap, and a guy of about 20 has entered my room silently. His eyes were cold, his face was malevolent. I decided that my days are finished...