As local bachelor Buster Frank (24) sat on his single bed in his single-bedroom apartment, staring at the plain, off-white wall in front of him, he contemplated whether taking Marie’s advice was really the best course of action. After all, the doctor had told him that his body was physically unable to create or process serotonin on its own.
But that’s just a doctor. Marie? Marie has her own Netflix show.
It all started at Christmas when his Mum had bought him Marie Kondo’s best-selling book, ‘Spark Joy’. Michelle Frank has been worried about her son ever since he finished university, and started working in accounting three years ago.
Mrs Frank sighed, and informed us that her son isn’t the same happy-go-lucky kid she used to watch head off to university. By all accounts, instead of a smile, Buster deploys the half-baked nod of a man who spends over twelve hours a day working for essentially minimum wage, on the promise ‘it’ll be worth it in a few years.’
Tired of relentlessly urging her son to visit a clinical psychologist, she turned to The New York Times bestseller list. ‘Why pay $180 a session to sit on a dingy couch, when Marie can fix him for $24.89?’ she thought.
Oooh, and it’s a hardback too. Nice.
In a similar vein, Buster was far more conducive to reading a book by himself than helping some psychiatry flog pay off their Masters.
Marie promised him that his life would be fuller if he threw out everything that failed to spark joy. It started off alright at first, Buster looked around his apartment, realising that his mugs don’t spark joy, and nor do his bowls. ‘Maybe this will work,’ he thought.
With each item that Buster picked up, he hoped that this one would break the numb haze that gripped his brain, to no avail. As the day wore on, Buster’s bin grew ever fuller. Not even the charming duo of Alex and Richard hosting ‘Pointless’ (the UK version, obviously) could save the TV, as it was unplugged and thrown onto the front yard.
‘Do I really like forks? Have they ever brought anyone joy?’ muttered Buster as his cutlery found its way to the rubbish.
A soft meow, came from the corner of the room. It was Bugsy, Buster’s cat, the only company he had since his long-term girlfriend had left him because she felt as though he was ‘prioritizing his job over his life.’ Surely he’ll spark joy.. He stared deep into the green feline eyes.
Unfortunately, not even Bugsy could fix the chemical imbalance inside his troubled brain, and into the bin he went.
Finally, sitting in a room that more closely resembled Nelson Mandela’s Robben Island prison cell than that of a young professional, Buster had a sudden realisation.
‘I should probably get this checked out.’
More to come from this poor soul.