i know life cant be this hard for everyone. i know i dont deserve this or fucked up this bad that im paying for this. i dont know what im supposed to do. i dont know who im supposed to be. i dont know why these phones wont stop ringing. i cant stop the emails. i cant even take my 15 minute government mandated break. but im going to do it and im going to vent and i hope the rain comes and floods this fucker and i hope that im under all of it and i hope you never have to read anything like this again.
i hate this thing that im stuck in. i hate it. do you understand that four letter word. its true its real its black and white. im not sure if this situation im in is supposed to inspire me to do something else. but its not. im not sure what will inspire me to do something else. i dont know who im supposed to pretend to be in these moments.
i am a man who is dynomite under pressure but hours and hours of pressure become tiresome. especially when its ridiculous pressure. worthless pressure. dumbass pressure. pressure for no reason. if you have three women being held hostage in a torture chamber under a historic bar in hollywood and fifteen wackos who barely speak english strung out on a chrystal meth binge and far too much ammo and super huge guns then you will see me at my best. i can talk smoothly and clearly and funny and hot.
but put me in hours of bs ontop of bs with bs dripping from the ceilings and if after ive used my superhuman skillz and all that ends up is business as usual then i get extremely frustrated.
asteroids taught us in what, 1980 that the hyperspace button isnt always reliable. it is the last resort. you can die if you hit hyperspace even once. why do they want me to hit it 12, 13 times a day. why do they want me to fly hard and shoot as many things as possible. why wont they just let me sit in the middle and carefully aim and carefully shoot.
why wont they just let me die.
all i want is to be able to do what everyone in the world knows that i should be doing. which is write to you. all i want is to be someone who just sits around in his pajamas and drink rum and teach the children well. all i want is to have a cuban girl to talk dirty to and a hippie girl to flirt with and a college girl to dream about. all i want is everything and what i am with now is the epitome of nothing. its worse than nothing. its the swirling mass of dumbness that defines the black hole of nothingness. what i have is dumb. what i make is dumb. who i am is dumb. what i know is dumb.
today i got off the bus and walked the five blocks to the xbi hq and i saw a pack of people in their business suits. they were going to the ihop. they had their notepads. they had their white shirts and their ties. i looked at them and i said fucking sellouts. i looked at them and i said to myself that if i ever have kids and if i ever have a house i can tell those kids that daddy didnt sell out to get them their house. that integrity means something more than square-footage and that there are exceptions to every rule and their poppa was that exception and since they were mine then they too were the exception and selling out isnt what you have to do to get what you want.
and nobody in that pack looked smart and nobody in that pack was going to change the world and everyone in that pack looked like everything that i didnt want my life to look like and it was way more than looks. it was everything.
then i walked past a gym and i saw one guy leave there in half a business suit and i said sellout to myself. then i saw another guy in a dress shirt and dress pants and a briefcase and i said sellout to myself and i saw the guys who take a squeegie to the side of our marble building and i said you at least you work for a living and you can go home to your kids and say that you did bullshit but and then i stopped myself and i thought that if that guy was offered the briefcase businesssuit sellout white tie power breakfast listen to the boss talktalktalk opportunity he would drop his long squeegie immediately and buy those 6 kids a new minivan and hed be the happiest ex squeegieman in america.
the test is how low must i go till i tell the wrong people the wrong answer which is yes my fucking soul is yours. yes i will dress up like people tell us we’re supposed to dress up like and yes i will give you my love for a small sack of shekles.
and after the flood there will be mud. and i thank you for letting me vent.