[The Early Morning Talk Show Host]
by YBLalat

It is midmorning and the sun is wide-awake. The room is rather shady compared to the gold yellow air outside. I loosen the wet towel’s hug from my hips and lash it onto the messy mattress. The small fan on the desk creates an echoing buzzing sound as it spins rapidly to ventilate the stale room. I put on a blue tee and my favorite jeans and head towards the battery recharging station on the wall. They are warm. I unhook the batteries and snap them into the Discman’s slots. The Kid A album has scratches on its jewel case. The hinges scream when I try to take the CD out. I punch the play button with my thumb and the CD spins like a circus juggle plate.

I sit on the synthetic leather chair and stare at the wall in front of my desk. There are small holes on the white paint and they are filled with dust. I try poking them clean using a sharp pencil but the carbon tip is not that strong; it breaks easily. There is a small black dot on the wall now, next to the holes. I put the pencil down and touch the black dot with the tip of my finger. It is smeared by the wetness of the skin. Instead of just a tiny black dot, now there is an elongated shadow of a black banana on the wall. I feel the heat seeping under my skin. The fan is focused the other way around. I adjusted it quick. The cooler breeze is on my face like the morning wind of the beach.

"What are you doing?"
"I just got out of the shower. What?"
‘You forgot to check your inbox. Maybe last night somebody emailed you something. Go and check it."
"Okay. Stay here."

I run to the PC in the living room and hop onto the wooden chair. The screen is sleeping; so I jerk the idle mouse to wake it up. It startle a bit by that but a few seconds later, it was okay again. I click on the network icon and am soon surfing the world. The inbox is infested with junk. There is a notice email that my guest book was signed. I feel a little disappointed that there is only one notice email this time but still I giggle. The temperature in the living room is milder than in the room. Somebody must have had the windows opened last night. The front page of the guest book pop out off the screen. I log on and wait for the page to load.

"That’s quick. Usually it would load longer."
"Who would go online via the U connection at this hour?"
"People like you who have no cable connection, that’s who."
"Didn’t I tell you to stay in the room?"
"And leave me melting? The heat is unbearable."

I click on the guest book’s edit icon. There is a new private entry on the guest book. It seems that there is just one entry to entertain myself with for now and I think I know who the author is. Correct!

"Yes, it’s her again."
"Oh, a long one. Looks like she’s angry or something."
"Yeah, she is mad at me for saying that I think that she wants me."
"Sounds complicated."
"Not at all."
"Your readers are so taken by what you post. Doesn’t that scare you a bit?"
"Sometimes."
"Is she usually this angry?"
"No, not really. That’s the weird part."
"I guess she is trying to prove a point to you with that last sentence."
"Yes, I see it now. Oh well. Let’s eat."

With a single click, I logged off the secure server of the guest book page and leave the PC to its midmorning nap again. I get up and walk towards the kitchen counter to see what is there to chow down on for breakfast. Nothing is left from last night’s dinner. I guess my roommates liked that pasta and beef thing I cooked very much. The pot is scraped clean. Not a single chunk of carrot is in it. I open up the coffee tin and pull out the coffee machine’s jug with the other hand. The smell of the Colombian beans is so soothing like that of a fresh mountain air.

"Would you like to drink coffee this morning?"
"Sure. Put in an extra tablespoon of it into the machine. Black as possible."
"I thought you’ve stopped drinking coffee a few weeks back. The incident where you burned you hands or something."
"I am okay now. Coffee keeps me awake now and then."

I pour the tap water into the machine and switch it on to full brew mode. The couch in front of the TV is a mess, just like my bed. I sat on one of the burst-out cushion and lay my head against the wall. The Discman is on my right side, already playing the second track on the album. The sound of the thumping bass reminds me of a marching beat in a tribal dance ritual on TV I watched last night.

"So, what do you have in mind for today’s entry on that online journal of yours? A funny story from your high school days again?"
"No, I am thinking of saying something about that girl just now but I am still not sure what to say or how."
"Are you sure, man? Isn’t that a bit cruel?"
"Why?"
"She did write that message as a private entry. Wouldn’t that expose her?"
"Yeah, well. But I don’t think nobody knows who she is exactly."
"I guess you’re right there but still I think that commenting on her anger wouldn’t do that much good for your journal or readers for that matter."
"I never said that this journal thing is for good."
"Whatever. What the hell is taking the coffee machine so long?"
"Relax. It’s halfway finish. Just look at that floating red ball. See. Half."
"I am telling you here. Don’t do that crap any longer, man. It’ll do you more harm than good, no matter how happy you are now because of it."
"Calm down. That journal is just temporary. I am thinking of a new concept altogether now. ‘The 3rd Persona: Labyrinthine Ego.’ Catchy, huh?"
"What the hell is that? Another online journal?"
"Probably.’
"Then, what the fuck is this Chronic Mass thing for?"
"This new one is totally fictional. I think of it as a writing project."
"But the Chronic Mass thing?"
"I am still thinking of whether or not to continue it a while longer. Frankly, I did it initially because I want to test issues that are relevant, or should I say, response-happy to today’s readers. Didn’t you notice that I wrote on a broad scale, ranging from teenage monkey love to suicide dreams?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you wrote all that shit, didn’t you?"
"Compared to the other online journals I visit everyday, mine doesn’t have a fixed format or a focused mindset, you see?"
"Some are just standard models of being a personal journal, like Ed’s."
"Yeah."
"And some are just sheer ramblings about nothing."
"Exactly."
"Where do yours fit in?"
"No where. I don’t like to conform to any model and I will not stay to the same format of an entry or even repeat one. If I posted Malay love poetry once, I won’t do it again in a million years. Not even if it did some chick a squishy heart to think me of."
"No wonder. Is it just me or that I see more and more people start to vary their journal entry? I’ve seen pasted emails and really bizarre entry formats being posted and also sarcastic observations being posted too. Before you became the young journal upstart, I don’t think there is much to that trend, right?"
"Beats me. I am rather new to the scene."
"Oh."
"Hey, would you like milk with that coffee of yours?"
"Nah, just plain sugarless. Only real men drink coffee that way."
"Sugarless black? Serious?"
"Yeah, I do it all the time."

The sound of laughter later ensues, filling the room with an ambience of comfort and joy that could only be found at the earliest hour of the day. All of my roommates have gone out to work. I feel sad that there is nobody else that I know of who enjoys such a coffee and the quiet sunrise as much as I enjoy it myself. The best things in life are to be savored alone.