Maybe A Hell Would Be Better Than This?/I don't want to wear this shirt

And that day will come when my heart stops providing my organs with the required blood, and my lungs cease to inflate and deflate, and the command system of my brain logs off permanently, and I'm about to close my eyes for good, but a man comes and says: "you're not allowed to do that yet. do you meet all the qualifications? let me see your degree, social security card, and identification" then a woman says "please make your way over to the line on the left and have your papers ready" then after the line there is a ticket numbered 926 and the woman says "when your number is called you may come to window number 7" and so I ran to the elevator but it was taking too long, so I took the stairs, skipping a step or 2 on the way down, my legs grew tired, but I kept on willfully descending, anticipating the smell of city sewers and halal food stands as I hugged the railing using it to propel myself down the last few steps, but my olfactory senses weren't working and there was no aroma of cooked onion, maybe it was just my allergies. As fatigue's visit became inevitable, hope decided to abandon me. I developed reckless thoughts like what if just "accidentally" fell, alas I gave in. I tripped myself. I fell down each step hitting a tender organ or bone, at each corner I somehow turned and kept going. The staircase became more spiral and the stares started to say things to me with every punch, like: "y=mx+b" and "a house divided against itself cannot collapse in the most practical way, it will expend more construction workers to clean up the rubble on each side, not to mention the property value..." the sharp edges of the staircases became rounded like cobblestones until it was a bumpy slide burning my skin and statically electrocuting my hair as the pain changed, it was no longer the brass knuckles and baseball bats of thugs that call themselves intellectuals, it was the guilt of corporations coming to realizations, they felt the hurt of all the wildlife and domestic life they've bled dry. And soon I was on a conveyor belt, I was no longer moving against my floor but now moving with it, and going sideways instead of down. Although it's been hours since I've seen my reflection, I was certain my eyes gave the thousand mile staircase impression of the stoops I had just used as a means of transportation. A man with a wrench then tightened bolts that somehow have been on me this whole time. Another man or maybe kid, who's beard hasn't even began to grow, took a drill and added a few new screws to the ones I've oddly accumulated. A 3rd man, who still had baby fat on his cheeks and teeth of a child, used a hammer on my temple and split my skull to reveal whatever contents were still inside it. A 4th man, a giant of man, who had whiskers longer than his entire torso and sunken pale blue eyes, lifted me with ease. He carried me as a mother would with unlikely gentleness and concern. The dark behemoth placed me in a room of nurses, all but one with facial scars, some missing eyes or teeth. The nurses proceeded to take out a sewing kit, as expected, and stitch up the gaping hole from my gullet to my gut. I could only watch as each face I've seen since the upstairs bureaucratic office began to pile into the room. Aliens in black suits and sunglasses aimed their guns at me, but Steven Spielberg just yelled "cut!"

see I was getting dressed on a Friday afternoon, I had just taken a shower and I go into my closet to take out a white button down shirt, I start putting it on and think to myself, I don't want to wear this shirt, but I'm lazy so I just keep buttoning it and this voice in my head keeps telling me that I don't want to wear it, I say screw it and put on cufflinks and I'm just standing there for a second feeling really uncomfortable, as the voice says see I told you, and by that point I agree with him, I don't want to be wearing this shirt, It's not that I don't like wearing the shirt, it's that I don't want to be in it, I don't feel comfortable in my own shirt, what do you think of that? now I'm not sure what went down that day in that room alone, but you understand the feeling of not wanting to wear a certain shirt? ladies and gentleman believe me the logical thing to do is just to wear a different shirt, but logic wasn't with me, to this day, I cant explain why I didn't want to wear that shirt. Still damp from the shower and a little cold, I decided to finally switch it for another shirt, but a new voice came, it was the same voice from before, just with a different tone, he was back, and can you guess what he said? that's right, he said I don't want to wear this shirt, of all the Nietzschean ways to explain this situation, I came up with none, no big words to add on to your vocabulary, no concepts for you deep thinkers out there, it was just a feeling, a feeling you don't understand, a feeling I can't logically explain, I just don't want to wear this shirt, and so I took it off just like the other one, with goosebumps I took out a third shirt, at this point I was becoming suspicious, I didn't even bother buttoning it, I just knew the voice would be back, and naturally it was, It only got up to "You do-" and I tore it off, in fact, I tore it to shreds, I stomped on it, I screamed to God and stood there alone awkwardly for a few minutes, and by this point I was dry and no longer cold, I then realized something, something that had been there the whole time, a voice, a voice so soothing and faint that I hardly noticed it, but without the ability to judge if it had been there all my life or just a few minutes, I listened, I listened carefully and I got furious when I was able to make out what it was saying, so furious that nearly punched a whole in my closet door. you know what he said, he said the same thing that every voice had said that day, he said "I don't want to wear this shirt" but then it hit me and I became even more angry, this was a different level of anger than I'd ever experienced, I didn't scream, I didn't ask God about it, I understood everything