I have this firmly held belief that going to bed is most depressing on Monday nights; not Sundays, which is the more common go-to (Naturally, I'm sure.) because it lies at the end of the week-end; but I think it is because of this fact, Sunday night is held with a kind-of somber dignity: The chin is held high and the face is stoic--determined, for the week lies ahead and you're sure it won't be as bad as the last, and the streets are quiet--inhaling deeply for the plunge. But on Mondays that all goes out the window; you've landed in the shit you knew was the drop-point and you berate yourself for how incredibly naive you were the night before, and all that lies ahead is Tuesday. Fucking Tuesday! So imagine how I felt when I heard a tap on my front door as I was preparing to crash like really fucking hard. And imagine my reaction opening the door to some kid, decked in a twenty dollar grim-reaper costume that you'll find in the post-Halloween sales section at a K-Mart.
"Hey, do you know--"
Red light blinks on the black box.
"There we go. You know where I can find 2216 Austa Villa Dr.?"
"This isn't COPS, chill with the voice."
"Sorry."
Light blinks off.
"What do you want?"
"I'm looking for 2216 Austa Villa Dr. I think I'm in the right neighborhood."
"Why?"
"What?"
"Why are you looking for 2216 Austa Villa Dr.?"
"Oh, I'm Death. I'm here to collect."
Silence.
"Sure you're not in the right place?"
"Pretty sure. This is 2219 isn't it?"
"Yes. 2216 is across the street. His name is Chad."
Door slams.