I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

Lately, everything’s been breaking. Slowly, specifically, and somehow always my fault. It started with the fan. My one loyal electric fan, survivor of three transfers and a mild typhoon, finally died mid-shift. It made a small choking sound, spun once like it was waving goodbye, then stopped. I hit it a few times, whispered encouragement, prayed over it. But I got nothing but silence and the smell of fried plastic. That was Monday. By Wednesday, my phone charger followed. By Thursday, my left boot. And by Friday, it was my patience. At this point, I think heaven’s customer support finally closed my ticket. Everything I touch lately either breaks, malfunctions, or disappears. Even my luck. Especially my luck. We were doing deck duty last week when it started raining. I accidentally slipped, landed ass-first on wet steel, and my superior just said, “Good initiative, Vasquez. Cleaning the deck with your body.” Everyone laughed. I laughed too, but mostly because crying isn't standard military protocol. Then the next morning, the mess hall ran out of coffee. That was my breaking point. I’ve survived isolation, poverty, heartbreak, crypto losses, and roaches the size of childhood trauma, but no coffee? That’s divine sabotage. The final reckoning. So yeah, I'm trying to be as religious as I can, but I think my angels already unsubscribed. Probably switched to a better soul. Someone with clearer moral branding and fewer complaints per day. Maybe they’re guarding some influencer now. Someone who prays in better lighting. --- Every day feels like a rerun lately. Same schedule, same scenery, same conversations that sound like background noise. I wake up, do my job, fake a laugh, go back to my bunk, scroll mindlessly, and hope sleep comes before thoughts do. The ship feels smaller lately. Or maybe I’m just too big for my own head. Every corridor feels like it’s whispering, “You again?” I try praying sometimes. But my prayers now sound like ransom notes. “Please, God, just one win. Anything.” He doesn’t answer. Maybe He’s tired of the repetition too. --- Last night, the seas were especially rough. I stood on deck, soaked, staring at the waves. The ocean looked alive and angry, but somehow limitless and free. I felt the entire opposite. Lightning flashed, and for a second, I thought, This could be it. Not in a suicidal way, more like in a cosmic joke kind of way. Like if I got struck, it’d at least prove someone up there still noticed me. But no. I didn’t even get the courtesy of electrocution. Just another night of getting yelled at for standing around the weather deck and “looking dramatic.” Back in my bunk, the guy below me was snoring like a broken generator. I stared at the ceiling, thought about home, thought about leaving, thought about disappearing. Then I laughed. Because that’s what I do now, especially when my punchlines are slowly losing their punches. I hope my angels didn’t unsubscribe. I hope they’re still around and watching. I hope they have something like Vasquez nights or Vasquez and chill. Or maybe they’re just like everyone else. They grew tired of watching me try, fail, and play pretend that it's fun. Either way, I hope they’re happy. Someone out there should be.