He suddenly became aware of the decades of grit and grime from a deteriorating linoleum floor squishing between his toes. Teletubbies was at full volume on the television. Dave wanted badly to silence the squeaky costumed characters, but he knew the remote was buried deep in the folds of a comforter smelling strongly of stale smoke and cheap lager. Anyway, doing so would mean either setting-down his half-eaten sandwich of margarine and raw donkey assholes, or freeing his other hand from inside the pants of the sixty-two year old bearded prostitute who was now moaning contentedly as his fingers worked their magic betwixt her long neglected nether-regions.
I hate margerine. My life is infuriating. Since I can't seem to turn a single dime writing music and blog posts, perhaps I could routinely paint disgusting scenes like that, and someone could pay me to NOT publish them?
If you found this post because you follow me on Twitter, I apologize... that is, for the drunken crap I chunk out in 140 character packets while boozing every so often. My situational frustrational confusional delusionism is a genuine psychological handicap. I'm just awaiting a diagnosis so I can collect $1600 / month from Alberta every month.
If you've followed my blog at all, then you know about the deleterious situation I find myself in. On one hand, I'm grateful for the luxury of not having to have a job, but being a 37 year old basement dweller isn't at all glamorous or stellar. I want to be drunk as much as humanly possible... apart from television and computers it's a cheap form of entertainment to amuse myself with. For a few dollars / hour, I can escape my pathetic reality and pretend people online care what I think. Throw a little cannabis into the mix, and the dim confines of my bedroom refuge magically transforms into an ephemeral wonderland. This underachieving slob doesn't need an SUV and a credit card for a fun trip!
My folks probably expect more from their only son, but of course they, along with the rest of the world, can't even begin to understand me. I don't think blowing-off steam with a case of beer and a pack of smokes is altogether unreasonable behavoir. I know it's improper to discuss other people's private lives, and I dearly love my folks. I'm hardly a ray of sunshine at the best of times, but they can be such outright hypocrites, man. The hypocrisy, dude. I mean, they accuse me of being negative. I'll just say that if you think I'm some kind of ingrate, try living with a couple of miserable seniors and leave it at that.
When I read the headlines, it saddens me greatly. The indignities and atrocities committed every day, and the awful crimes people are capable of. Thinking of how many innocent people are soft-killed through starvation, or even outright massacred just so some little lord can satisfy his material greed in this wasteful military-industrial complex of a world... it's almost paralyzes the mind. If our civilization is on the precipice of a major conflict, I know I don't want to be mindlessly moving boxes around some faceless grey warehouse for peanut pay or cursing rush hour traffic as the bomb hits!
Even when I make money, I don't buy new things. My worldly possessions wouldn't fill a cube van. I have a typewriter, a 70's-centric vinyl collection, a video camera, two computers, a few shelves of books, two guitars, an amplifier, a casual wardrobe, and various pieces of home electronics. If I were to ever make a bunch of dough, I'd probably get a nice electric guitar and give the rest to my Mom so she could dole it out to me as a weekly beer & cigarette allowance. Money tends to burn a hole in my pocket if there's a juke joint within walking distance, so I'd be doing myself a favour.
Given my inability to keep my mouth shut aftera few pints, there's always a good chance of some angry combative type taking out his frustrations on me for inadvertently making a waitress laugh. I can generally box my way out of a fight, but I'm no seasoned scrapper and my smoker's lungs are wheezing before I've thrown a dozen poorly-timed haymakers. Getting into a brawl with 300 lb riggers is foolhardy at best, and potentially deadly to my slim, artistic frame.
Here's hoping you have a nice, moderately indulgent weekend, esteemed reader, and don't hesitate to be the first to chuck five bucks into my endowment fund if you enjoyed this piece of enlightened blog-talk, but a thoughtful comment would mean just as much to me. In fact, if you're the first to leave a comment, I'll put together an exclusive audio CD of my favorite tracks with some hand-signed liner notes and mail it to you.
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| Managed to get a few stills of one of my favorite rock bands before someone told me to lose the camera. |
I hate margerine. My life is infuriating. Since I can't seem to turn a single dime writing music and blog posts, perhaps I could routinely paint disgusting scenes like that, and someone could pay me to NOT publish them?
If you found this post because you follow me on Twitter, I apologize... that is, for the drunken crap I chunk out in 140 character packets while boozing every so often. My situational frustrational confusional delusionism is a genuine psychological handicap. I'm just awaiting a diagnosis so I can collect $1600 / month from Alberta every month.
If you've followed my blog at all, then you know about the deleterious situation I find myself in. On one hand, I'm grateful for the luxury of not having to have a job, but being a 37 year old basement dweller isn't at all glamorous or stellar. I want to be drunk as much as humanly possible... apart from television and computers it's a cheap form of entertainment to amuse myself with. For a few dollars / hour, I can escape my pathetic reality and pretend people online care what I think. Throw a little cannabis into the mix, and the dim confines of my bedroom refuge magically transforms into an ephemeral wonderland. This underachieving slob doesn't need an SUV and a credit card for a fun trip!
My folks probably expect more from their only son, but of course they, along with the rest of the world, can't even begin to understand me. I don't think blowing-off steam with a case of beer and a pack of smokes is altogether unreasonable behavoir. I know it's improper to discuss other people's private lives, and I dearly love my folks. I'm hardly a ray of sunshine at the best of times, but they can be such outright hypocrites, man. The hypocrisy, dude. I mean, they accuse me of being negative. I'll just say that if you think I'm some kind of ingrate, try living with a couple of miserable seniors and leave it at that.
When I read the headlines, it saddens me greatly. The indignities and atrocities committed every day, and the awful crimes people are capable of. Thinking of how many innocent people are soft-killed through starvation, or even outright massacred just so some little lord can satisfy his material greed in this wasteful military-industrial complex of a world... it's almost paralyzes the mind. If our civilization is on the precipice of a major conflict, I know I don't want to be mindlessly moving boxes around some faceless grey warehouse for peanut pay or cursing rush hour traffic as the bomb hits!
Even when I make money, I don't buy new things. My worldly possessions wouldn't fill a cube van. I have a typewriter, a 70's-centric vinyl collection, a video camera, two computers, a few shelves of books, two guitars, an amplifier, a casual wardrobe, and various pieces of home electronics. If I were to ever make a bunch of dough, I'd probably get a nice electric guitar and give the rest to my Mom so she could dole it out to me as a weekly beer & cigarette allowance. Money tends to burn a hole in my pocket if there's a juke joint within walking distance, so I'd be doing myself a favour.
Given my inability to keep my mouth shut aftera few pints, there's always a good chance of some angry combative type taking out his frustrations on me for inadvertently making a waitress laugh. I can generally box my way out of a fight, but I'm no seasoned scrapper and my smoker's lungs are wheezing before I've thrown a dozen poorly-timed haymakers. Getting into a brawl with 300 lb riggers is foolhardy at best, and potentially deadly to my slim, artistic frame.
Here's hoping you have a nice, moderately indulgent weekend, esteemed reader, and don't hesitate to be the first to chuck five bucks into my endowment fund if you enjoyed this piece of enlightened blog-talk, but a thoughtful comment would mean just as much to me. In fact, if you're the first to leave a comment, I'll put together an exclusive audio CD of my favorite tracks with some hand-signed liner notes and mail it to you.
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