Saturday Mourning
Saturday Mourning


Saturday Morning, 1978
Yesterday was boring. Really boring. Some people like Fridays because they're the end of the school week. I hate them. They're the same as any other day: a day without roach. Saturdays and Sundays are different though. I get to find roach and watch him. Watch him walk, watch him eat, watch him die.
And then, I get to find roach.
Find and watch her sleep, sit around, and die. Always watching, always killing.
I don't know why I do it. It happens when I'm bored. Boredom makes me do it, I swear.
Saturday Morning, 1979
Yesterday was boring, like always. No one else can see that though. I'm the only one who understands; the one who understands roach. Roach is pointless, roach is useless. He might think he isn't, but he is. He's just a roach after all.
Nothing he does matters.
He doesn't matter.
Saturday Morning, 1980
I'm getting bored of saying what's boring, bored of thinking what's boring. I'd rather watch roach, but even that's getting boring. She always sits around the same, always sleeps the same, always dies the same. Should I start killing them differently? Should I kill new roaches?
Saturday Morning, 1981
Boring. It's all so boring.
Saturday Morning, 1986
Yesterday… wasn't boring. I think I found a new type of roach, a new type of pointless. She has clear blue eyes, long charcoal hair, and only two legs. She's definitely different from the others, but a roach is a roach. And roaches don't matter.
Saturday Morning, 1987
Last Friday, like the many before it, wasn't boring. In fact, Thursday hadn't been so bad either (I'd nearly forgotten Thursdays existed). It was all due to the new Roach. She'd been so talkative, so engaging. I just kept forgetting to squish her. And why wouldn't I? She never bored me, never lost my attention or focus. She'd catch my eye every time she walked
into the room: I was transfixed. Maybe I could take my time with this one...
Saturday Morning, 1988
Roach has continued to fill my days with meaning, with substance. Though I do fear that the well's running dry. All of those conversations we've had are starting to become relics of the past, mere memories of what was. You can't have the same conversation twice, after all. Topics, subjects, events: they all run out eventually. I suppose I've gleamed all I can from this Roach. It's around time I move on.
Saturday Morning, 1989
People never forget the day they graduate. It's the start of the rest of their life; a new life in some ways. Though I doubt me and my classmates will remember this day for the same reasons. They'll think of the day they got to celebrate with their friends at being free from schooling, but also newly imprisoned by the jobs they were sure to get. I'll be thinking of the day I bashed Roach's skull in, watching her drown in her own blood as it pooled in her mouth along with newly gray bits of brain. A part of me was sad to let her go, but the rest knew better. Roach had become boring, and that meant her meaningless existence was much more apparent than before. Enough to make me not see the point in her continued survival.
Boredom made me want to do it, simply for the sake of doing anything other than being bored.
Saturday Morning, 1990
Yesterday was boring. Really boring. Having a job is just as much of, if not more, a Hell as school was. My parent (I had forgotten about him at times) has me working in the same factory that he does, trying to mentor me into a foreman. It's honestly not that hard, but I've never been one to toil contently. Hopefully, I'll find another roach soon. One just like the last roach, but still new and different enough to produce that same feeling of niceness and simplicity that she gave me.
My new life is surely going to be a lot less boring than the last. I will see to it myself.