Michael ignored the noise in his kitchen as his tea pot boiled over and began to scream. It wasn’t very hard, because it was so common that he could just filter it away and focus on what he really cared about, which to be honest was not a great deal of things. The constant shriek did not subside, and eventually he was forced to stand up and confront it. He walked onto the linoleum tiles that hid a dilapidated kitchen floor and turned off the electric burner on his stove. He lifted the pot of boiling water and poured it into his coffee brewer, and waited for five long minutes while his coffee was prepared for him. He opened the cupboard to get his mug. It took but one slip of the fingers and a curse for that entire goal to be forfeited. Even after a bottle of white glue the mug was still useless. He placed it back on the shelf and took another slightly sheepishly.
Unfortunately for Michael, the coffee was terrible and bland, and many teaspoons of sugar later it was still not palatable. His scrambled eggs sat, barely touched, on an old plate. A glint from his watch face caught Michael’s eye. When the watch face became visible, he rose with a jolt, pushing his chair back, and, hastily grabbing sunglasses and car keys, quickly left the one story house. He slid quickly into the driver’s seat and twisted the key, and sighed with relief when the engine turned over and started to run. It was at this time that the news announcer on his radio announced the Saturday morning weather.
Michael just as quickly killed the engine and tugged the key from the ignition.
He went back to his house and paged through the mail. It was all taxes and bills. Exhaling, he shut the steel box and went back to his news, still resting where he had left it on the kitchen table. He decided, over another mug of the horrible coffee, his house was in need of upkeep; he hadn’t swept yet today. He took a ragged broom from a closet and swept dirt and dust into a pile. In a decision he took no time in making, Michael moved all the dust under the carpet in his living room. He would forget the dust, so why care? A philosophy he lived his life by, and one which sat in his mind while he rested on his battered couch for the remainder of his morning.
When afternoon came, he stood. Stretching his back and feeling, for reasons he could not place, slightly agitated, he got a can of spray paint and went out to his car, determined to make it look more well kept on the outside. He blasted the oxidised steel with paint that blended in with but did not quite match the old Honda’s color. It annoyed Michael, but he ignored it as best he could. He went around the car, painting over but not removing all of the rust that had gathered and built up, around the wheels and on the body, in the most unlikely of places. He kept covering even the most minor blemishes until the can fizzled out.
He finished up, and got his keys to go for a drive. Sliding into his seat, he slammed the door and turned the keys in the ignition. He took the car onto back roads and accelerated beyond the speed limit, watching with satisfaction as the scenery became a blur. He was still driving away from his house when his front wheel dipped right into a pothole. His whole car shuddered, and Michael’s sunglasses flew from his face. Michael sat, shaken, his glasses up on the dash. He retrieved them and put them back on. He then tentatively hit the accelerator and turned around, heading back home. The return was uneventful, but Michael took more time with his drive. He finally reached his house and parked the car. He quickly assessed it for damage, and finding none, he went back inside.
Michael took the car out again in the evening, when the sun was gradually lowering in the sky. He pulled out of his driveway and drove over a bridge towards the highway, taking more time to look at the details. As Michael pulled onto the interstate, he felt a slight shudder, but thought nothing of it. He drove for a few minutes, and regained complete confidence in his car. He smiled recklessly, and, as he watched the sun finally dive below the horizon, Michael stamped on the accelerator.

It was a mistake.

The pothole had done more damage then met the eye, but Michael had ignored it. The front axle fractured, and the left front wheel flew from the car with a force. The car itself went careening off the road, Michael going straight through the windshield. He skidded to a stop in the grass and wet dirt, his sunglasses lying fifteen feet from his broken form. His vision faded into a general darkness, and he saw a police car stop quickly, parking on and obliterating his glasses. The scope of his vision filled with blobs of red and blue, and the silhouettes of things which he could not control scurrying about. As he passed out, he thought to himself, “This is what I add up to.”