Stream of consciousness writers were always bipolar. How artsy. (Rather pessimistic, I'm afraid)

Fitter, happier, more productive, comfortable, not drinking too much, regular exercise at the gym, 3 days a week, getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries, at ease, eating well, no more microwave dinners and saturated fats, a patient better drive, a safer car, sleeping well, no bad dreams, no paranoia, careful to all animals, keep in contact with old friends, enjoy a drink now and then, will frequently check credit at, moral, bank, hole in the wall, favors for favors, fond but not in love, charity standing orders, on Sundays ring road supermarket, no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants, car wash, also on Sundays, no longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows, nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate, nothing so childish, at a better pace, slower and more calculated, no chance of escape, now self-employed, concerned but powerless, an empowered and informed member of society, pragmatism not idealism, will not cry in public, less chance of illness, a good memory, still cries at a good film, still kisses with saliva, no longer empty and frantic, like a cat tied to a stick, the ability to laugh at weakness, calm, fitter, healthier and more productive, a pig in a cage on antibiotics.

Anyway, every Tuesday that I work, the same woman comes into my line a little before 5:00. She's older, overweight, and her hair is thinning. When she talks, her voice lacks any emotion whatsoever. She doesn't wear a wedding ring. Every week (for the past eleven months), she buys sixteen containers of yogurt, two tubs of ice cream, three bottle of coke, seven TV dinners, two loaves of bread, and a bag of apples. I wonder how she got to that point.