My father lost his job today. That’s real. No bullshit, no purple prose, no literary circumlocutions. In 2008, October 30, my father lost his job. Just bought a new house too.
You think I have problems? Or I think I have problems?
He’s fifty-one. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Was it his fault? Is he not a team player? Or decided to ‘rent’ instead of ‘buy’ when it came to his career? No one is as good as my father — but being good — maybe that doesn’t matter — execution is for low-level plebes, no, if you want to get ahead in this world you got to be a greaser, greasing every squeaky wheel you can find.
Killed two mice today. Maybe kill another two tomorrow.
This is the end. This is the end my friend. The end. 3:23 AM in the morning, da da dada dada da dadadada. That’s the Smurf theme song; Lollapalooza. Crazy Halloween party tomorrow on the roof. I won’t be there. Visiting my girlfriend.
Once, I never thought I’d have a girlfriend. Back then I was full of endless longing, endless yearning, I was all potential, no actuality; now — I don’t even know what I want anymore.
I realize this post, this diary entry into nothingness, with no audience, no love, falls on empty ears, is more pessimistic, and without that rosy bluesy romantic fog that usually makes sadness so lovely; I guess cause this ain’t sadness, this is something else, anger and disappointment. The big 100 law firms of America, now being crucified, didn’t want me, had no desire for me, maybe it was something I said, and now I have to scrape and beg to be their lapdog, their hound, I don’t want that, fuck that, I’m 26, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, fuck you, world, I’m not paying back my student loans — take that and suck it, assholes — $50,000 a year tuition to be a fucking bottomfeeder leech. I don’t want it anymore. If it were all the same, I’d go back to Elsewhere, and smoke weed every evening and certain afternoons.
The Rastafari don’t like it being called a weed. To them it’s a sacrament. If I ever get a moment, remind me to tell you about Jamaica, and how the Market Orthodox at the I.M.Fucking.F. fucked that one up from here to China. When exactly was it that Americans sold their democracy for a couple of magic beans at the market? 1968, when they thought better of their decision 8 years earlier and decided to go with the Dickie Nixon’s shifty smile? Or twelve years later when history decided to repeat itself as farce on the strong shoulders of Ron Reagan?
These fucking Republicans.