This American Life

14 Jan

Good morning. The fucking car is breaking. Now it starts overheating the same day you put water in. I should just fix it, but that requires money. I should pay my bills, but that requires money. I should get my car registered properly, but that requires some lengthy process because while I’ve already paid for it, somehow the insurance wasn’t paid up at that time, which requires money, and so, the fucking registration didn’t stick, so I got a ticket, which requires money. And now I have to park on the (REDACTED STUDIO NAME) lot in their impossible parking structure, which requires time. How are they even checking expired registrations? It’s not like the thing was from fucking 1978, it says 2010. Fucking DMV. Requires money. Requires money. Requires money.

And I don’t have any fucking money. And I don’t have any fucking time, because I have to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day, leaving the two to three hours that aren’t consumed by work, commute, or basic life sustaining activities– leaving those hours useless and passive due to emotional exhaustion. I just drink them away. If I don’t drink, I just sit there grinding my jaw and muttering to myself and fighting with my inner demons.

I work to earn not quite enough money to sustain the car, phone, apartment, insurance, computer, and food that allow me to continue get up every morning and work for eleven miserable hours per day. I earn ALMOST enough to cover these basic daily expenses that allow me to work to pay for them but once in a while you have a thing like the car needing a repair which takes a couple hundred bucks off the kitty; this gets added on to my credit card debt which is now gigantic enough to insure that if I ever stop working for even one day I am completely fucked.

How did this happen? How the fuck am I so broke? I mean, frankly, the answer is drinking, which I do to distract myself from the misery of working for a few scant hours so I don’t find myself shopping for a shotgun with a big enough trigger guard that my toe could fit in it. I spend money going out and drinking, taking girls on dates. To get laid, so I can feel good for forty five minutes when I wake up in the morning having gotten some new ass. To feel that I have some sense of purpose in this world besides getting up and working for eleven god damn motherfucking hours every day, I spend money that I don’t have, requiring me to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day.

This would all be different if I worked with hot chicks. If there were a reason to feel anything but dread at the prospect of going in there in the morning. If I could look down the crack of some twenty four year old girl’s blouse and see half a snow-white tit once in a while, somehow this lifestyle would be manageable. Or if there were some element of actual fun to work, if work actually produced tangible results that I could be proud of. If we actually made something. Instead it’s covering your ass, competing with ten thousand other people just like us over ideas, writers, projects—competing with ten thousand other people just like me except they have no hobbies or desires besides work work work and so they beat me every time. The work is all for nothing. Or if it ends up being for something, it will be stupid. Or it will fall apart at the last minute. There are no low hanging fruit in this world and it’s just slavering type A ivy league kids fighting each other at knifepoint over scraps. The world of white collar “creative” jobs has become the fucking Road Warrior universe and the last two viable ideas in Hollywood are fifty five gallon drums of gas guarded by a guy with hockey pads and a pink Mohawk whose dad runs a studio.

And when it isn’t work, it’s bills, it’s fix the car, it’s clean the house. You can’t spend eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day being someone else’s factotum and then be expected to devote further energy and time diving into the immense mountain of little pains in the ass required to stay afloat in modern society. You gotta pay the gas, you gotta pay the electric; they changed the payment system and they won’t take debit cards and now you gotta sit on hold waiting for an operator to tell you to call a different department where you gotta sit on hold, and please listen carefully as our service options have changed to serve you better– this means you and everybody else got real good at pressing three two one one three to get to a person to give you support in this matter, before that you all got too good at pressing zero immediately, and then at pressing nine real quickly when we took away the option to press zero. Now we had to change our service options again because you fucking monkeys figured out too quick how to speak to a human being; now you need to listen to and select from ten to the fifteenth power amount of options and if you press an invalid selection we’re gonna just hang up on you. And this is because it’s too expensive for you to be on for forty five seconds with the guy we’re paying sixty six cents an hour in India.

And the ATM fee from the cash you pulled out at the liquor store to buy a half pint of cheap brandy to take the pain from an eight down to a four kicked you down to sub zero balance on the debit card because unbeknownst to you is still charging you sixty nine ninety nine every three months for a service you haven’t used in three years and that dings a hundred bucks out of your credit card that they charge you immediate twenty dollars interest on, and etc. etc. etc.

I would complain more, but now I gotta go to work. Whatever. At least I’m not fat.

2 Responses to “This American Life”

  1. Lawn mower January 28, 2012 at 9:36 pm #

    Love the blog


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