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He is in a state. The hangover is making itself felt.

What was a meaningful haze moments ago


is now an aching pain. Maybe it was there all along he mumbles to himself as he proceeds to
reach out for the pain-killers, about to reject the headache its right to existence and to banish
it from this world forevermore. Or until he has a hangover again. He hears Lydia in the other
room preparing to get ready for work.
You really should call in ill today. She doesnt respond so he adds: do you know that,
darling? In a sneering tone of voice, Lydia responds: YOU really SHOULDNT have called in ill
today. Why not? I am a writer, not a worker. And what Im doing now is work. He stretches
his languid body, perching himself on the couch. you call that work? says Lydia from the
hallway, upset and almost ready to go.
For a while, he weighs up his options: I can say something nice, something she wants to hear.
Or I can say something she doesnt want to hear. With stubborn noncompliance, he chooses
the latter. Well, to be fair, this is perhaps more play than work. But that is because for me,
work is play. I cannot stress this enough- Lydia appears in the door opening to let him know
she is leaving for work. She is wearing her new beige trench coat, and her blonde hair is done
in a knot on the top of her head. She assumes a figure of authority, her arms crossed and her
lips small. -You should be working, not playing, whether it is your REAL job or your writing
were talking about. Seduce me! the man exclaims in an erotic tone of voice, lying on the
couch, waiting to be entertained. Please clean up the apartment before Im home- She
pauses for a moment -And yourself. Ill see you later. The door slams behind her. He listens
to her footsteps as she walks down the stairs. Even her footsteps sound a bit angry. I wonder
how women do that he says to himself as he gets up to make some coffee. Alcohol, check.
Painkiller, check. Now for the stimulants.
Alcohol makes him write. Or rather, hangovers do. It is as though he cannot justify to himself
the simple indulgence of writing, so he must put himself in a position where he cannot
reasonably expect to do anything else well, and then he begins to write. She wants him to
work, work very seriously and diligently, but he knows that that is her opinion, not his she is
a maniac with work, over the summer she could not leave work for even three weeks without
showing signs of withdrawal. She had to check her emails, make calls to colleagues who were
still at the office, verify she didnt miss out on something important. Something great that
never happened. But then once she had went through rehab she incessantly praised how great
it was to be off work. He hadnt be able to figure out whether she genuinely felt good letting go
or if she needed to validate her being off work now that she had allowed herself to do so.
Maybe work has taken over where religion used to be the opiate of the masses, as Marx
thought. The man ponders the thought while he dutifully makes the self-prescribed cup of

coffee. Even more accurately, work is a religion, and so Marx was right all along. The man
grins. The coffee is standing in front of him, zealously requesting to be imbibed. He takes a
sip.
The next step of his routinely hangover is to sit down with his coffee and write. He never plans
in advance what he wants to write that strains the creative process too much, or at least in
his head it does. The thought reappears in his head: Marx was right all along. Not about
everything, but about religion. The Socratic idea that the afterlife is spent conversing with
great dead philosophers pleases him, and so he looks up as though to acknowledge the
veracity of old Marx remark. People are addicted to religion, in some form or other: for some
its work, for some its science, for some its being part of a culture. It is that invisible
framework constituting a persons outlook, the way in which they see the world. When you
know someone well you know their religion, and then you can see where they are coming from
miles away. Some people carry their religion with zealous conviction, others waiver more in
their faith. What unites them all is that there seems no good reason that their way should be
the right way of looking at things. Even if there were one it would have to be asked: why is
that a good reason? And of course at some point youll have to stop giving reasons for your
reasons. He shakes his head, writes the argument down and drinks some more coffee. Then,
as out of nowhere, it dawns upon him. The only true non-believer is the artist. He tosses the
thought around for a while, observing it from every angle until he pins it down precisely: It is
the artists essence to free himself from the shackles of religion, at every moment to transcend
this psychological demand in order to liberate his own soul. He writes down the poetic thought.
Maybe he should be a poet instead.
The phone rings. He hesitatingly reaches out for it. Yes? It is Lydia calling from her office.
Have you started cleaning up yet? Dont forget Grace and Paul are coming over for dinner
tonight. He briefly looks around the messy room. Yes, yes, I am on it. How is work? Work
is great, actually,- His diversion is effective. Lydias voice is beaming with excitement, ready
to embark on an extended monologue about the joys of work. -I am finally making progress
on my case. I just love it when everything starts to make sense, it is so- her voice breaks up.
-Erhm, I have to go now. I will tell you more about it tonight. She hangs up, leaving him
once more with his own thoughts. He continues to write for a while but his headache is starting
to reappear. He widens his eyes unnaturally and puts on his robot voice: Must. Banish. Once.
More. Blip. As the bottom of his coffee is reached he stands up with automatic faith and walks
to the kitchen, determined to satisfy his brains desire for another cup of black gold.

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