The Overly Descriptive Adventures of Cyrus Johnson

The clouds nestled low to the ground, grey and white filled the air as a muggy cold breeze flew in. The ground, wet with precipitation, radiated a smell of fresh rain as the residue of mist over stayed it’s welcome. Its morning, the sun hasn’t awoken from its slumber, and the interstate is congregated with an assortment of motor vehicles. I peer down at my phone, hoping upon hope that some acquaintances pictures on Instagram gives me a bit of entertainment as I await the next truck to arrive at the docks. The cushion of the teal green fork lift I occupy embraces my posterior as I slouch in a comfortable position. Motivation eludes me as I sit and observe the behaviours of those stuck in their metal cages. What must they be thinking this early in the morn, dinner dates? Babysitter acquisitions? Deadline meetings? Or maybe if they have time to do one more raid on their respective farming consoles before they need to work on their projects later in the night. The personal mind intrigues me on such quandaries.

I reach for the plastic vessel which contains a caramel and chocolate substance which all the “basic bitches” love and adore. I put the florescent pink lid to my lips, anxiously awaiting the brief shot of adrenaline it offers. The brownish hue pleases me. “I can drink black coffee if I want to…” I confidently assure myself. “Haters gonna hate.” I laughingly mumble to myself, as I dart my eyes quickly around the vicinity, hoping no one heard. Its cold. A grimace crosses my face, I down the last bit quickly, as if I’m taking a shot of cough syrup, hoping that the taste passes quickly. For a brief moment in time my body is filled with energy. I’m engulfed in a bliss and ecstasy that no one, in the five minutes it lasts, can take from me.

That’s when I see it. The work day begins as a blue and white clad truck pulls in. Its empty gullet, ready to be filled with delicious ales for the mass public to enjoy. I love this part, knowing in some small fashion I bring joy, or alcoholism, to the select few who partake in the beverages we make.

Until next time journal.
-Cyrus Johnson


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