A Supposedly Staggering Infinite Work of Heartbreaking Illumination I'll Never Read

Greasy to rhyme with easy

Clogged pores, chafed skin, unreachable itches, a hammering in my ears, perpetually damp nostrils, grease accumulating around the rims of my scratched-up plastic lenses. Shoes too loose, pants too tight. A hair ingrowing on my neck, driving me mad. The slightest noises, voices flowing in oscillating waves of volume from down the hall, the bathroom door flying open and latching itself closed. Inane telephone chatter. Sluggish, inefficient digestion. Technology failing to work, no longer even bothering to promise to work. Unselfconscious banter from slightly addled burnouts who repeat themselves and speak in earnest and never seem to notice that I don't give a shit and am giving them only the barest minimum of a civilized nod of attention hoping they'll wind it down and go away already. All my old scars prickling. The seizing up of my back muscles in a T shape pointing to my underdeveloped trapezius. Slick, slippery ear canals and whorls, fingernails bitten to the quick, an old torn anterior cruciate ligament injury acting up in perfect weather, body language worn down by bucket seats and computer postures, an extra ten pounds, now twenty, now thirty. Hour upon hour in this same place, staring at a tiny moving cursor. Jokes that waste time. No sense of humor left.