It’s the same old shit all the time, isn’t it? Wake up. That’s mandatory. Have a coffee. Get that boost for the day, you know. Go to work. Ok. Where? Fuck. It doesn’t matter. Work in a cubicle. Doing what? Selling. Selling what? Time Shares. I’d rather hang myself. Then hang yourself. I don’t want to. Then get a different job. Fine. Where else? You could work at sea, be a fisherman. That’d be fun. Yeah, and I’d be sea sick all the time. And I’d just being doing the same shit every day. Wouldn’t that make you feel like Sisyphus? My favorite character in the entire mythical pantheon: Sisyphus. Carry that fucking rock, Zeus says. So he rolls the rock up a hill, for all eternity, until it gets to the top. Then it falls. Then he goes back down and does it again. I once had a dream that Zeus was impeached by a group of more intelligent God’s and laid Sisyphus off. Sisyphus had no rock to carry, nothing to do. He became depressed and later decided to carry the rock again anyway. I’d rather not do the same thing every day. Then work for yourself. Doing what? Write. You’ve done it for all those teachers and morons who fed your drug addictions at $20 a page. You could at least relax. You know? Work things out. Wake up. Lay around. Lounge; you’ve earned it. The god’s have been laid off, and Sisyphus is unemployed. What now? The days are long. Lights are bright. You can’t hide in your hole all day with no sun. You can’t become a hermit everytime you feel like it. Why not? Because it doesn’t pay. It doesn’t pay at all. Why does it have to pay? Because everyone has needs, everyone has coke machines to put money in for one thing or another. I imagine the oasis and the coke-machine again. It’s a story I tell women a lot. It’s meant to be allegory.
The oasis is pure. The oasis is clean. It’s always been there. Sometimes the vision of it fades, and the mirage turns into a coke machine. The coke machine becomes real. It has all your favorite drinks. It’ll satisfy you for a dollar. Put in a little effort and you’re happy. You’re serviced. But what about the oasis? Obscured now though it makes no demands. It’s there in abundance. But the image of it fades. The coke-machine sells happiness for one dollar a pop. The oasis always provides. But when a man wanders in a dessert, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a coke machine or an oasis. No one would want to die from dehydration.
Writing all the time can drive you mad, you know.
Then don’t write. Get a regular job. Be normal. Be an American idle.
I’d rather be an oasis than a coke machine. Then what the hell is the problem?
Write about it on the blog. Fucking blogs. Maybe you could get paid to do that. I’m sure it’s possible. I could sign an advertisement agreement with some wireless company at 55 cents a pop and make money off you assholes! The game is mine.