Moe lay on his back in bed, staring at the moldy ceiling of his apartment. He hadn't slept all night and chose to undress down to his underwear instead of showering and putting on pajamas. Outside, the lights were still on and people continued to drive cars, illuminating his room despite being the dead of the night.
Another sleepless night and another skipped dinner. It seemed like routine to Moe, who at this point was so fed up with life that he found himself hardly want to do anything but be bedbound for weeks-except he had a bar to operate and several beer-hungry mouths. He could hire a substitute bartender, if he had the money. Financially, Moe was so poorly and often begged Homer to pay for the rent.
He tried to remember what happened earlier that day. His mind always seemed to be foggy and sometimes memories would become distorted.
Did Homer drink all the beer? Barney?
Did he talk to Marge? Or any woman?
Did he try to kill himself? Again?
Being Moe is awful.
Moe rubbed his face and sat up, feeling his bones crack and a headache already forming. He wanted to take his mind off the many things he thought of, and none of them were good things to think about. He plucked his phone off the table and unlocked it; the time read 3:30 AM. His photo album was a mishmash and contained pictures of his bar, odd things he found on the street, self deprecating and increasingly pathetic images of himself, and of Maggie.
Moe loved that little girl. She was an innocent baby who did not yet know the toils and troubles the world could bring upon her later in life. And he hoped she never would. He thought about Maggie sleeping peacefully in her crib, not a worry in the world, perhaps dreaming of little lambs and pacifiers. Or maybe of Moe. In contrast Moe himself hardly slept and it was obvious in the dark circles under his eyes, and the large ever-permanent bags. And in the times he did sleep, often his dreams were not very good, or he didn't dream at all.
He sighed deeply and rubbed his aching temples, trying to come up with a future plan that didn't involve more despair than he already had. He tried telling himself that he'd be fine. Maybe he would visit Maggie. Babysit her. Maybe he would meet somebody who loves him romantically.
Anything could happen.
Moe felt a shiver up his spine and instinctively hugged himself, feeling the sharply defined ribs interlocking between his fingers. He took another deep, shuddering breath.
Everything will be fine.
He retched. No. Not everything would be fine. Moe lay himself back in bed, now on his side where he faced the window. He watched the cars pass by.