A gym coach stands on a track and speaks to a group of girls; the girls sit at his feet in a semicircle. The coach speaks in a dreary monotone while mindlessly twirling a whistle in his hand.

Coach: It is almost the weekend because today is Thursday and this weekend we will be going by bus to the neighboring village and running there in a competition and it will be nice to get out of town, not that I particularly enjoy this job—or any of you for that matter—but at least I have a job, but sometimes I wake up at night and wonder why I do this job at all and if I should do some other job because I hate each one of you so much that my hatred surpasses that which I feel for twelve-year-old girls who are worse than you all because, while they are as catty, they smell like boys, which is the only way you all could be worse than you are; no, I take that back, I don’t hate any of you because hatred is such a strong emotion and I’ve stopped feeling anything at this point, so I can’t hate you and, so, yeah, I just put in my time today standing here talking to you because it is Thursday and I have to coach you on Thursdays and this weekend, too, when we drive over to the neighboring village and run, but all the rest of the time I get as drunk as possible and just, I don’t know, god, just do it again the next day and the next and the next week and the week after, and the next year and the year after and this is what each of you has to look forward to as you grow up and enter the real world where you have jobs and you earn money and that money means less and less over time because of inflation and the only thing you can look forward to is numbing your minds with chemicals or, or whatever, but the twelve-year-olds are the worst because they smell like little boys and mock me mercilessly but I don’t care about the mockery a much as the smell, and why I have to teach them anyway when it really is Mr. Smith’s job to teach the twelve-year-olds but the principal won’t be reasonable although I’ve asked her on multiple occasions to free me from this living hell that is dealing with each one of your stupid faces every Thursday and then coaching the twelve-year-olds immediately afterward, which makes one ask why one was born if this is what life has to offer, but that’s why I buy an extra six pack of beers on Wednesday and have two six packs in the icebox at home already waiting—oh, god, that’s the bell, so the twelve-year-olds are coming and, yes, I can smell them already, oh god.

The end.