by Roberto Malandro
The shrieking climbs through my ears without concern. Unsolicited intimacy finds its way onto my thigh in the guise of a poorly written newspaper and a chubby hand; its owner running low on energy and self-control. Hot breath and elbows encourage me to squirm. I suppose the closer you get to hell, the hotter it gets. "The next stop is seven hours of despair and self-loathing... I mean Moorgate." I trek the rest of the way to the office humming Disney show-tunes; the grim death march begins.
Roberto Malandro spends much of his day crying. He has been educated, at various levels, in media studies and can now comfortably identify the target audience of most films he watches. During the day he works in a terrific office - a supernova of excitement if you will - and spends large portions of his time, as mentioned earlier, crying.