Friday, October 11, 2002

I don't want to work.


I don't ever want to do anything for the rest of my life. Is that so bad? Even if it's a piece-of-cake job and something that I enjoy-who cares? I want to spend the whole day watching T.V. and regretting it. Spending the day filming movies that I'll watch over and over and only make sense to me. I want to see how long I can sleep. Or stay up writing or reading on the computer. I want to spend all of my time retyping Bukowski poems and to show them to my friends, telling them that I wrote them. To hand write a copy of Enders Game in pencil and ask them what they think. I don't want to do anything except drink and sit in the shade while my dogs, cats and my one Chimpanzee fetch beers for me, attack intruders and take my messages. Sounds good doesn't it? Of course it does. I know I'm A sick, spoiled American brat. Yeah. Okay. So. Whatever.

My father was a Chore-Nazi. Anytime I ever wanted money for something, it always involved dirt. Want some candy? There's weeds to pulled. A movie you're dying to see? Help me dig this ditch. Prom? Let's get rid of that palm tree. Yes. Of course. I learned good values from my ex Boy Scout/YMCA Counsler/Army/C.I.A./ U.S. Customs/ Father. I learned that you never get anything for nothing. Treats are expensive. And personal enjoyment's dirty. That we spend half of our lives working hard so that we can comfortably do nothing. That's why I'm giving up. No more. After my father kicked me out on my Eighteenth birthday, ( you saw that coming, didn't you? ) and after the year of fucked up travel, I've had some pretty strange jobs...

Before being kicked out-

I worked at a comic book store.
At Pizza Hut making...pizzas!

Wait a minute? That was it before being kicked out? No wonder I got booted.

After being kicked out-

I worked at a pizza buffet restaurant.
At a music/video store.
A drycleaners.
As a puppeteer.
Interviewed bands for one magazine.
Wrote fiction and poems for another.
Scripting/acquisition/voice-over work for cartoons and other various stuff for a company.
And was/am a waiter.

That's it?

Oh man...

That's it.

I want a ranch in Montana. Cattle, horses, and lemon trees to make fresh lemonade out of. Rabid dogs with bionic eyes. A lucrative script-writing contract. Comic books. Sindy And Chet as my next door neighbors. A pet crow. Stephen King and The Olson Twins on my speed-dial. Adolph Coors and Phillip Morris' mother's skulls. I want a real, working...lightsaber. I want to own stock in Blue Star Ointment, and to be able to help the world as I see fit. I want to eat elementary school cafeteria food again, my dear Watson. To play with Atari Teenage Riot, Man Or AstroMan and Dean Martin.

I want. To read. Think. Watch.

To watch Porky's movies constantly.

And to watch that porno that I saw when I was young, about the guy who-

infiltrated that middle-eastern embassy and had missles that shot out of his......................

Bye. You Bastards. I'm Tired.

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