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|<!-Post: 1216-!> By Jeffrey Scott Holland on Thursday, December 25, 1997 - 09:02 pm:|
The ironic thing is that the year before, I was making loads of money as a graphic artist and hanging out with a jet-set artsy crowd. But I partied with them until I was broke and couldn't keep up with them. I had to give paintings to the landlady in lieu of rent, assuring her they'd be worth something someday. I'd love to get them back but she's probably thrown them away by now and I don't even remember her name.
i've always hated that expression.
carpe diem bites me in the ass. eat up the moments like some tasty fastfood snack sucked down with little rhyme and less reason and then the next thing you know three decades are barking up your fucking tree like vicious dogs demanding some kind of meaning from a bunch of squandered years racked up on the stick you were trying to beat the rabid motherfucking bitches off with in the first place...
goddamn stick is too fucking short.
either that or the sharp end got blunt while you weren't paying attention. (if you can't pay attention you can't afford freedom of speeeeeeeeech)
drop the stick, kill the dogs with third-eye kung fu, then sit under your tree so you can take some kind of sadomasochistic personal inventory.
then when you're through, find that the shit in your psycho-emo-moral stock falls short of the recorded bullshit you wrote up in your ego-books.
do your grasshoppas outweigh your buttaflies?
big dumb thirty.
i've got worldwide debauchery, foul relationships, dollar bills, good breeding, bad habits, and a hole the size of a golfball in the middle of my brain.
think globally, act like an asshole.
i'll fake 'em out like job.
the rest of you motherfuckers at the poker table can decide whether you're yahweh or lucifer.
doesn't much matter to me.
big ugly jean genet balcony facade.
and i'll win anyway.
standing firm and fighting dirty.
drink my patron silver and wonder if catholics really do die happy? confession, absolution, redemption, salvation.... shit.
me? i say fuck all that.
i've got my own god-property.
my stock is going up.
eat glass, children.
if it hasn't already, your time will soon come.
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"W. Alan" <email@example.com>
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Subject:Is that a carrot in your pants, or are you happy to see me?
A recent comment about time is hitting me in the nuts.
I do not require testicular pain at this time. I have entered your information in our database and should a match between your skills and our needs occur I will contact you immediately.
Geeze... is it obvious I have been doing the resume slew? Yes... I think it might just be. Any way... back to that feeling of having one's nuts mashed flat with a wooden mallet... oh the horror... I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor... the horror.
Within the last few precious weeks I have been consumed with that horrendous neurosis of feeling the expedient drizzling away of our most coveted resource... TIME! Time is a muther fucker... and it rarely if ever even leaves a fitty on the night stand. I am, strangely enough quite in tune with your comment about time indeed. You would not think so though huh? I mean... from the million hours of a 'working for the man' perspective... what the fuck could Alan be so busy with? "...Whatsa matta you...? Can't sleep till noon any more...? Can't have naked people at your house in the middle of the day...?"
I remember it well... Eat, work, shit, sleep. Eat, work, shit, sleep. Repeat. There are so very few brain waves left over to do anything constructive with. Yes... I remember it like the scar tissue on my recovering heart. It seems like such a good idea to work so hard... then one day... you realize... what the fuck have I done that I enjoyed in the last year? This of course does not apply to you... cause you are working in your chosen field. Farmeretta... out there bustin a crop. I know my time is getting short. I know I am not Martin Short. These things I know. "...There never seems to be enough time ta do the things, ya wanna do... once you find them..." (Jim Croce) I know that my allegedly free time away from work is swirling down the drain... in the near dreaded future... I will throw away my free man days for a newfound wage slave master. No longer will I have the luxury of allowing thoughts to come to me... I'll have to pursue them with a hungry hunters vengeance. I will be expected not only by my "girlfriend at the time" to account for my time. There will be quotas and deadlines and those fucking boring ass meetings moderated by the leader of the incompetents. There will be little dancing innuendoes... There will be drinking to excess to smear a smile onto an otherwise dissatisfied face...There will be surprise attacks from the enemy at night... There will be a beautiful daily shower of the most finely grated load of feces... There will be expectations carefully balanced upon my load baring shoulders... all the while knowing... I have my own drothers. As time dissipates into a blur of action items and deliverables, that genius idea for a successful book project becomes a hazy shade of 'what was I just saying...?' Pretty soon... I am actually astral projecting myself out the window during yet another stroke inducing meeting of the powers that be. I find a reason to visit the vending machine a dozen times a day as my only momentary escape from day long beatings that leave me somehow missing it enough at night that I have to dream about it. In those dreams I am clicking on icons on a monitor screen that is my life... but none of the icons will respond. I click and double click myself into a frenzy until I collapse in the corner... a shell of the human I once could have been. I am trapped. I am a rat on a sinking treadmill slave ship. I have begun to slide down the slippery slopes of quality hell. I find out every single thing I have accomplished for 'the man' was for naught... I don't' fucking care about anything... but I am supposed to act like I do to collect that carrot. And the carrot keeps getting bigger... and the carrot might start tasting better pretty soon and the carrot will bring with it many other carrots and pretty soon... I don't want another fucking carrot ever! And then one groggy Monday morning I'll open an Email and find out that the dumbest fucking person I know has become my new supervisor. Pretty soon... all those mutherfuckers that go apefuckingshit at work and kill everyone... start to seem like urban heroes. Pretty soon... the idea of helping natural selection weed out a few of the less desirable genes in the pool, seems like a viable plan... but of course... I would never take the chance of nicking a few of the innocents... and innocents are being slaughtered daily... but I will not be the executioner... no sir... I just won't do it...
Hey... was that a carrot in the hallway?
i was in the middle of posting something along that vein last night when i selected the whole text and replaced it with the letter "p" by accident.
all that was left... dddddd.
goddamn mental human. our eyes were made for looking at distant places. and here i am, nearsighted.
the longer you dream, the longer it will take you to realize that your dreams are not what you really want. so long, in fact, that your dreams will realize themselves and it will be too late. too late, and your dreams realized are replaced by new dreams of lives you've already lived.
we're not meant to be happy. if we were happy we'd stop living.