I’m sitting here at the icehouse, next to Kiddie Park http://www.kiddiepark.com I’m fixing to go to work. I’m not depressed, or tired, or anything. Even so, I hate this fucking place, and I hate this stupid routine. I need to be fabulously rich, like I used to be. I used to wake up whenever, first thing I’d do is drink a Dr. Pepper, then I would bolt down on some crank and coke, then I’d go to a shopping mall or store, and I’d buy something, anything, EVERYTHING! It didn’t matter if I needed it or not. Just the act of spending money was all the nourishment I needed.
Now, besides having to work, which is a disaster in itself, I spend my time trying to impress myself by scribbling in a little notebook to pass the time. You’ve seen winos staggering in the streets, muttering to themselves, or talking to cars? Well, that’s me, except I babble into a notebook.
I’m trying desperately to impress myself and the world, hoping against all odds that some of my freebee wasted life will somehow turn into cold cash, so that someday, once again, I’ll be rich. And I’ll wake up anytime I feel like it, and I’ll take lots and lots of drugs, anytime I want, and I’ll go shopping in a new car, and buy lots of junk I don’t even need. Someday.
But today, I got to go to work. Now. Shit! Fuck luck, I need money! Lots of it. Gimme money! Money!
Gimme money! Money!
