despite the weekends being jam-packed with back-to-back holidays, late december is consistently dreary for logan. dismal. absolutely fucking miserable, even. perhaps it’s the ever-present exhaustion that comes with enduring another three-hundred and sixty-five days over and over again, but by the last few days of the month? he’s running on pure fumes. if he had a little gas tank assigned to him, that baby would’ve been nearing ‘e’ since the first of the month. he’s practically crawling on his knees to get to new year’s, like a stupid little snail that’s lost its shell and, consequently, all its dignity. oh, how his hero, turbo, of the hit 2013 movie turbo, would be disappointed in him. over the years, however, he’s culminated his necessities that successfuly aid him in his effort to hang on for dear fucking life when the end of the year rolls around: nestle cookie dough and pringles. all he needs is a tub of raw dough and few good stacks of chips, and resting, recharging, and rejuvenating get just the littlest bit sweeter. his apartment turns into his own little homemade spa for the weekend, but undeniably worse. he’s on his merry way home with his silly little snacks in tow, pure pep in his step as he exits his local drug store to step out onto the sidewalk. all too pathetically, he doesn’t make it far, as the crowded sidewalk gives him no real room to operate. his lack of choice on how to navigate the crowd forces him right onto an ice patch and — believe it or not — vans are not made for trekking in inclement weather, despite their seemingly adventurous slogan of being off the wall. one unconfident step has him flying in slow motion, but he can see his sliver of happiness spitting in his face in real time. his bag goes flying backward, landing somewhere he can’t even be bothered to consider with the way his other arm sticks out to brace his fall. it’s a total mistake — the second his arm’s hitting the ground, he’s landing on it funny and groaning in obvious pain. so, it’s no surprise that he ends up just. laying there for a moment, wallowing in his pity (and new favorite patch of black ice), “oh, fuck me!”
