or, don't blog at all.
I am being absolutely killed with overtime. These days they ask me to stay late, later, later. I stay a couple of hours and it's like I'm spitting in their faces. This is the busy season, and we're understaffed. I have a responsibility. Everyone else is depending on me.
I hope, someday, to have a real job.
The kick of it is that I need the money. No, I know this is boring. I know it. But this is my blog, fucker, and I can't make it be something it doesn't want to be. Right now it is money and work and bills and overdraft charges and paycheques that cannot get big enough.
Do I have something to say about all of this? Anything at all that is interesting? Or am I already stuck with this goddamn cycle until I'm too old to salvage something of myself, of my mind? My body? I do have, incidentally, this body, that I've beaten the shit out of with hard labour to get a cushy loader job, a job where I can sit and stress and panic and drive and that's about it. Sits and thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks and THINKS about its olive drab drab. Doesn't know. That it is about to be named. Colour of the YEAR. By those with the nose for the new. By the passionate few. Yeah. Olive! Is definitely! In! Everything that can posibly mean anything, anywhere, at least for a year, has got to be olive! Didja hear that, olive, didja? Know what it means? Oh. Olive! There'll be olive cars and olive trucks and olive chickens and olive ducks and olive socks and olive garters and olive brakes and olive starters. Olive sorry! Olive please! Olive whatnots and olive trees! Huh! What a quaint notion. Olive trees.
Well, Ken, I hope so. I fucking hope so. I hope that all of this is actually for something, you know? Of course you do. You made your thing in spoken word jazz. You must have had moments, maybe enough to make up a youth and middle age, where it just felt like you were doing just nothing. Going nowhere. And somewhere in the middle of life's crushing down, of degradation and wallowing, or the struggle with the soft wet bag of mu shu pork that is the music industry, or the quotidian necessities of cooking to shit and sleeping to drive and working to pay and spending to die, in Orpheus, in Sisyphus, in Tantalus, in all of it, you rolled out of bed and said to your nightstand and your hat rack:
Hey fellas, let's make a word jazz album about colours!
Well, that's just the next step that I need to take, buddy. I need a goddamn idea, and I need one soon.
I hope, someday, to have a real job.
The kick of it is that I need the money. No, I know this is boring. I know it. But this is my blog, fucker, and I can't make it be something it doesn't want to be. Right now it is money and work and bills and overdraft charges and paycheques that cannot get big enough.
Do I have something to say about all of this? Anything at all that is interesting? Or am I already stuck with this goddamn cycle until I'm too old to salvage something of myself, of my mind? My body? I do have, incidentally, this body, that I've beaten the shit out of with hard labour to get a cushy loader job, a job where I can sit and stress and panic and drive and that's about it. Sits and thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks and THINKS about its olive drab drab. Doesn't know. That it is about to be named. Colour of the YEAR. By those with the nose for the new. By the passionate few. Yeah. Olive! Is definitely! In! Everything that can posibly mean anything, anywhere, at least for a year, has got to be olive! Didja hear that, olive, didja? Know what it means? Oh. Olive! There'll be olive cars and olive trucks and olive chickens and olive ducks and olive socks and olive garters and olive brakes and olive starters. Olive sorry! Olive please! Olive whatnots and olive trees! Huh! What a quaint notion. Olive trees.
Well, Ken, I hope so. I fucking hope so. I hope that all of this is actually for something, you know? Of course you do. You made your thing in spoken word jazz. You must have had moments, maybe enough to make up a youth and middle age, where it just felt like you were doing just nothing. Going nowhere. And somewhere in the middle of life's crushing down, of degradation and wallowing, or the struggle with the soft wet bag of mu shu pork that is the music industry, or the quotidian necessities of cooking to shit and sleeping to drive and working to pay and spending to die, in Orpheus, in Sisyphus, in Tantalus, in all of it, you rolled out of bed and said to your nightstand and your hat rack:
Hey fellas, let's make a word jazz album about colours!
Well, that's just the next step that I need to take, buddy. I need a goddamn idea, and I need one soon.
posted by gibletquesterrs at 11:15 PM
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