Tomorrow is Freedom Day. My last day of work. Most people in my work orbit don’t even know. I don’t know how to tell them. I don’t want to have the same conversation over and over. I’m leaving the company. They’ll try to sound out whether I left or got fired. In fact, there is some nuance. I’m getting fired, but I fucking really wanted to get fired. Like when your house burns down but you hated that fucking house anyway, it was the fucking Amityville house with demons crawling out of pools of blood and you hallucinated that every meal was full of maggots, and at least now you can collect insurance. They want to say I’m so sorry; they want to show sympathy for what they think I must be unhappy and scared about. I don’t know any of these people, I realize now. They don’t know me. Because these jobs are like getting paid to slam your dick in a car door over and over and anyone who does them is a fucking idiot. We have such a short life; I have wasted so much of it at this. I am glad to be free and I am sorry you’re still here, saying your work is going great like a battered wife talks about her marriage.
I’m so sorry- what are you gonna do? I’m gonna read great books, I’m gonna learn Spanish and French and heathen Chinese, I’m gonna get my guitar back up to speed and go sit in a coffee shop and have people drop one dollar bills in my case. I’m gonna find something easy to do for money. I’m gonna lift weights six times a week and when I take my shirt off I will look like Ryan Reynolds, albeit with the head of 1978 Harry Dean Stanton pasted on. I’m gonna go with Fake Girlfriend and camp; she knows where every good hot spring is in the American Southwest.
I’m gonna drive across the country. The car will die in Nebraska, miles of cornfields; there are probably not 1979 Mercedes Benz parts available 300 miles outside Omaha but what do I give a fuck; I have nowhere to be. I’ll make a home out of cornstalks and fuck a scarecrow every night. I’ll drive into Mexico. That trip with my buddy El Chuco; long time coming. They say it’s dangerous and I’m sure they’re right but what’s real fucking dangerous is living your whole fucking life without driving to Mexico. Without asking that girl out, without taking the time away from work work work work work. Without living at least a little while in a place where your whole day isn’t all assholes. You become like a housewife with kids– just like she only hears infantile babbling, the long creepy drone of the See and Say drawling “the cow says moo” too slow because the dumb little fucker’s chubby arm can’t pull the string hard enough– just like she only hears kids all day, you only hear cruel mercenary pricks. Work work work with these assholes chiding you and at the end of the day you can’t talk to anyone else; you just want to be left alone and drink.
I don’t even want to go in there today. I want to start being unemployed now. I am sitting in a park in the sunrise with my laptop warming my crotch, words are coming out pretty fast… there is a perfect drop of dew on each blade of green grass and the sun is glancing off a snow capped mountain in the distance like an old Coors can. I don’t want to leave this and go sit in an office with hustle and paperwork and assholes anymore. I’m ready. Maybe I should just stay here. What are they gonna do, fire me?