Stress Leave is a tale of loathing, intoxication, misadventure, delusion, messed up dreams and mental breakdown.
Lenny, a lonely, lost soul is intent on living life in solitude having been deserted by the love of his life. To achieve seclusion, he’s defrauded his employer by taking time away from work on grounds of stress. Unfortunately for Lenny, his doctor has insisted that he keeps a diary to prove how stressful life is. This book is that diary.
In August 2018, I was working nightshifts as a sporting-goods warehouse security guard to fund my educational studies.
No doubt, it was incredibly unpleasant and boring there, but money talked, so I chugged along, imagining better times.
Although this is not to be encouraged, I hadn’t worked there very long before it became patently obvious that sleeping on the job was fine. See, there was no-one there to check on me, and nothing much ever happened. However, on one particularly exceptional night, I got woken by a mixture of bright, booming light and ear-smashing alarms penetrating my dreamy slumber. Having been stirred against my will, then, I sprung up, wiped dribble away, checked the CCTV, found nothing, and snapped into adrenaline-fuelled action.
Feeling wired, I hurried from my office to the warehouse without much thought besides switching that brain-smashing alarm off. Having done that, though, I found a bunch of smashed up boxes, four tennis balls on the floor, and an open notebook belonging to some crazy dropout.
Next up, I called the police, and they actually came within an hour. By then, mind, owing to boredom, I’d read a few pages of the weirdo’s memoirs, and excitingly enough, they were absolutely engaging. They also showed that he needed a break, however, so when the cops questioned me, as nothing had gone missing, I stayed schtum.
The story didn’t end there, because having finished being nosey, stored his nonsense in a drawer, waited for him to come back for it, found alternative employment, and forgot about the silly dude, I got completely bored of life.
As most folks do, I tried a few hobbies to counter that, but all of them required too much effort, involved making uninteresting friends, and generally made me suicidal.
Suffice to say, my head wasn’t where it needed to be, so I drifted into patterns of lazing around, getting wasted, and sneering at everything else. During those moments, though, I remembered the phantom-diary and wondered if I could pick it apart, then use elements to write my own book.
Ever since, I’ve been pruning hard, meaning that it’s been brushed up, changed here or there, and infused with my own creative scribbles. All character names, including that of the diary’s narrator have been amended.
What follows is a version of the original diary, fused with my own creativity, and it’s completely tarnished by the fact that I’ve not been able to track said strange burglar down. By consequence, any profit from this book will be halved and held in a separate account, awaiting its co-author’s claim.
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