Drowning Discontentment (Part 1)

Steven fumbles with his jacket collar, turning it up to brace against the biting cold, as he slithers down to the local pub. Being a literal blob, lazily rolling over the crunchy snow underfoot is a rather undemanding thing for him to do and much less complicated or time-consuming than constantly reforming one foot in front of the other. He simply does not have the energy or patience for that today. Perhaps he will try tomorrow, pending the weather and his mood. There has been a nasty spot of both these days. Although the howling wind threatens to rip apart every blobicule of his being, nothing will dissuade him now from his arduous yet necessary trek to the cold comforts of a bustling bar and a bubbling brew.

Lost in thought about the day’s woes that propels Steven to seek solace in a hearty drink or two, he embarrassingly struggles with the door to the pub for several minutes in a zoned-out state of pushing it with all his might only to snap out of it and recall that it actually pulls. Steven tries to contort his grimace into a smile of appreciation to a patron inside who had motioned for him to pull it open, but clearly he did not succeed as the patron simply rolls his eyes at him while shaking his head and turns back to chugging his dram.

There are all manner of blobbish patrons here inside the bar. Every one of them is adorned with some kind of jacket that was either a burnt auburn or a crisp lime green. Only the truly eccentric ones wear the latter. The only notable variation amongst them all is in how well put-together a particular blob is. This varies on a blob’s desirable countenance, emotional state, and intentionality. Thus, there are blobs who strive for great height to tower over others in their lanky blob-ness, and there are blobs who pride themselves on being as large and round and blob-like as they can possibly make themselves. Many other blobs cannot care less and go off blobbing this way and that, some tall or long or small or stout, changing with the whims of the day or their internal state to be reflected outward for all to witness. It is certainly always a great conversation starter.

Steven makes his way past a group of buff blobs who are throwing darts and their heads back with laughter at a framed photo of a pet snail blob with an eyepatch. A blonde blob bounces in front of him giggling to herself and he follows her with his gaze as she saunters into to the bathroom. Moments later, another blob hurriedly makes his way after her. Steven ponders for a moment, then shakes his head and reluctantly lets the thought go chiding himself for thinking it in the first place. Although, in his mind, he had every right to think it, especially given the circumstances. Coming up to the bar, he shrugs his auburn jacket off, slings it over the back of his stool, and settles heavily onto it with a deep sigh.

“Ahem,” he politely clears his throat for attention. No one bothers to look over at him. He coughes a little louder and with more determination. “‘Scuse me, barkeep?” His voice cracking causes him to wince, but he continues on now that a bartender is looking his way. “I’ll have a drink now.”

“Absolutely! What can I get fer ya tonight?”

Steven lets his eyes wander the menu in search of something, though he is not yet entirely sure what that would be. All the drink options look so foreign to him no matter how many times he comes here. Blobs do not have the greatest self-awareness nor the highest of emotional intelligence scores, to say the least. As a consequence, Steven is definitely not the one to ask for the safe mixology of moods.

“Oh, I’ll just have a shot of Anxiety,” he says at last when his eyes settle on the name of a drink on sale. He reads on to the add-ons. “Sprinkle in some Self-doubt there, would ya? A little more, please. Perfect. Also, give me a shot of Insecurity to chase that with. No, make that two.”

It was exceptionally trendy lately for blobs, officially known as the Flugalorphs, to follow the completely irrational albeit alluring ways of humans. Humans are such complicated and messy creatures overflowing with emotions that they often end up wreaking havoc in their own lives with unnecessary drama. But these heightened emotional states are exactly what these blobs, devoid of personality and unspectacularly bland in appearance, crave a taste for on a slow Friday afternoon like this one. That is not to say that blobs cannot experience the natural ebbs and flows of a feeling or two here and there brought about by the mundanity of daily life, but only the good stuff can be bought and experienced here at the Being Human bar.

Rehab rates have been skyrocketing ever since the local craze for emotions began. Flugalorphs are getting out of control: melting into cascades of tears that flood basements; expanding into powerful fits of rage with the strength to overturn vehicles who dare follow too close behind and blocking traffic for all the rest; curling up into balls on linoleum floors hyperventilating themselves nearly out of existence; or freezing into blocks of icy contemplation at their desks with thoughts of morality and mortality weighing heavily on their blobby shoulders.

Doctors are baffled as to handle all this as psychologists are non-existent in the culture of these blobs.

Every emotion has its own taste, and the sugary ones are the most tempting, such as the mouth-watering chocolate cake flavor of nostalgia. It is a growing epidemic of blobs experiencing and overdosing on a wild variety of emotions too complicated to be handled even by humans.

So how were these flugalorphs dealt with when they became addicted to these highs of feeling Passion, Aggression, Melancholy or more? Well, they only had one answer: throw them into Rehab. Literally throw.

This was a monstrously vast hole – yes, a hole in the ground. The long fall down is meant to serve as the final emotional high before the rehabilitation process begins. Scattered at the bottom of the hole are hundreds of bland apartment buildings where these blobs have access to countless books about investing in the stock market, 9-5 cubicles, and sudoku puzzles designed to keep them occupied yet bored as a blob should be. For those still recovering from the worst, treadmills are available to literally chase after another Human trend: the runner’s high. Unfortunately, blobs do not have shoes, so if they are too impatient to wait in line to rent a pair, then their gelatinous feet end up sticking to the treadmill floor. They fall flat as they start up the machine, unable to get up and perpetually smacking their face on the ground as the floor rotates until some friendly blob takes a minute out of their day to help them up.

“Sir? Did ya hear what I asked?”

Mm? Oh, someone was talking to him. The barkeep. “Wha, yes, sorry, what were you saying?”

“Just checking that ya didn’t have anything to drink prior to this. Our Anxiety shots are quite strong and, well, we don’t wanna send ya spiraling down into Rehab, do we? Panic attacks are a common side effect of combining too many drinks, y’know.”

Steven laughs nervously. “Of course. No, certainly not. No panic attacks tonight.”

The barkeep smiles and slides the drinks over to Steven.

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