It is 10PM now, and Godzilla has been sitting at his desk in front of his laptop for six to seven hours. He has accomplished hardly anything today. Godzilla is drinking a lot of beer. He can not stop smoking cigarettes. His room is blue with cigarette smoke, and Godzilla sits on a chair in there, minimizing and maximizing Mozilla Firefox repeatedly. He is not over his girlfriend's house because she said on the cell phone that she needed time, alone, to think about their relationship. Godzilla worries that he will not be able to take care if himself they break up. He tries to remember how to shave his face or even where to get the best deal on razor blades and can not recall any of that information.
Godzilla doesn't know what to eat for dinner, so he eats a KitKat bar. He gets a stomach ache. He keeps drinking beer. He had told his girlfriend, after she said needed time alone to think about things, that he "needed to work on writing stuff all night, anyway." But Godzilla has not done anything. All Godzilla has done is minimize and maximize Mozilla Firefox repeatedly. For seven hours. He has checked his MySpace account a number of times. Godzilla knows he is getting nothing accomplished, but for some reason, has the secret belief that he is getting something accomplished. He doesn't articulate it, or even let himself form this feeling into words. He just keeps drinking beer, sensing that this is what he is supposed to be doing. He just looks at his laptop, drinks beer and smokes a lot of cigarettes. There is a new sense of hope every time he refreshes his MySpace.
Godzilla is a piece of shit. Godzilla knows he really is a piece of shit. His posture is very bad, but he does not care out of a vindictiveness for the fact that it is uncomfortable to sit with a correct posture. "Why should I do anything that makes me feel uncomfortable" is Godzilla's outlook on life. Godzilla has slowly alienated himself from every single person on the planet, especially his girlfriend. Godzilla feels totally fucked. He wants his girlfriend to hold him like a baby. He lights another cigarette. He doesn't know what to do.
"There's nothing going on here," Godzilla says, looking at the screen. "I'm not even doing anything." Something in his brain tells him to work on something, then something in his brain tells him that he is incapable of working on anything. Something, much louder and more persuasive than the aforementioned two somethings, is repeatedly telling him that beer and cigarettes are totally the right thing to do. Something else is telling him that he is very unhappy. Something is wondering if he really does want to kill himself. Something is saying not to kill himself. Godzilla knows that he is too much of a piece of shit to kill himself. He can not do anything. The only thing Godzilla is capable of doing is lifting the cigarette to his lips, inhaling, and tapping its ashes into the ashtray. Godzilla can not look at his roommates. He can not walk anywhere in the room without being afraid they will hear him moving around because the floorboards creak and they creak too loud and Godzilla is such a pussy that he makes little winces whenever he makes a floorboard creak. Godzilla just wants to disappear, but for his personality to exist somewhere, maybe floating in midair, perceiving the environment, untouchable, immovable, sterile, direct, forceless, complete, devoid of responsibility.