factory made chemicals and words on a blank page

I took the last sip of beer and chucked the bottle in the overflowing garbage bin next to my house and stepped into the street. As I looked over to my left, I had all of about two seconds to throw my body up and over the hood of the oncoming car of which I slammed on the hood and rolled into the street. I got a reassuring 'fuck you' hand gesture from the Israeli woman behind the wheel of her beater and pulled myself back up to my feet. She quickly speeds off leaving me in a trail of exhaust, and in this exhaustion, I plop myself onto the curb. My shorts are filthy and my leg is bleeding.
I breathe for a moment and wipe the sweat from my forehead and pick the gravel from my calf. I was right. Leaving the safety of my apartment, even if for a moment, has proven hazardous to my body and my rather fragile psyche soothed only by factory made chemicals and words on a blank page. I light a cigarette and limp to the bench in front of my apartment. I'm not ready to trek up the four flights of stairs, where all but the National Geographic Channel waits to draw my mind from what's actually here. I feel the vibration of my phone against my other unwounded leg and without looking to see who it is, I answer,
"Hello..."
"Hey, Its Simona."
"Hey you," finally a moment of cool in the midst of sweltering heat.
"How's it goin?"
"I just got hit by a car."
"Haha, no seriously..."
"Seriously. Fuckin' bitch just plowed me down, flipped me off, and kept going."
"Are you okay?"
I wince at the pain in my leg.
"I'm great, how are you?"
"You just got hit by a car..."
"A mere detail," The sun is going down over the soviet style buildings casting shadows in an orange luminescence, which seems strangely complimentary to the voice coming through the speaker of my phone. An old man shuffles by and raises his eyebrow at me, probably because I look a bit strange bleeding and filthy... and smiling. "Maybe we can meet somewhere other than Espresso Bar sometime?"
There's a few seconds of contemplating quiet, "Sure."
"Tomorrow?"
"Sounds good. Call me."
"I will. Have a good evening." And I press the end button. The conversation ends with a beep, and in that finality there's a sense of clarity.
I lift myself back onto my feet, and limp up the four flights of stairs to my studio apartment. As I ascent, the air gets hotter and as much as I want to take my time, I want out of this environment. I may have something to look forward to tomorrow night, but until that time, I need to occupy myself in some way and I am slightly dreading the in between. I take out my keys and fumble for the one that lets me in. The door creaks and the apartment's messy, and I really couldn't give a shit. I go into my bathroom and wash the blood from my leg, dab some iodine on the scrape, and cover it with a bandage. Iodine reminds me of my grandfather. He was always working on a project and sported an orange stained finger wrapped in a band-aid. The context in which we remember people brings clarity to our memories, and I find comfort in this thought.
I turn my television on, and following some Israeli adverts I try to focus on some lions tearing apart a gazelle, but this evening carnage isn't doing it for me.
I move over to my laptop and open a word document, and label the blank page "Good Tidings to Nowhere," and I begin to type.