Various concerned readers ask:
Did you get fired yet? When are you getting fired? Do you know what you’re going to do for a job? Are you scared? Etc.
I’m still working, but not for long. Any day. I have found no job, and that’s because I want no job. I want to be unemployed. I want to take a break and write all day, and fuck you, that’s what I’m gonna do. Not “fuck you” as in you, but you know, naysayers. I have fear and insecurity about it, that my writing won’t be any good. But fuck you, it will be good. Or at least, it’ll start out at whatever level it’s at and, one hopes, get better as I practice. Because what you’re seeing is 25 minutes per day. Maybe an hour on the weekends. As soon as I get a good idea going I have to get up and go do some work related shit. No more.
I’m gonna try. I don’t know why I feel like such a sad layabout when I contemplate not having a job– I’m gonna try to write. I’ve been working without a god damn break for almost fifteen years. I have paid into unemployment insurance. Now let’s take the money back. I wish I had saved some dough, but– fuck it. I’ll be broke. My parents will help me. I’m gonna try to live the dream. I’m gonna try to write a book. I have no idea what it’ll be about. But maybe it’ll be fucking good. Maybe it’ll be something I can be proud of.
And who gives a shit what people say. I’m scared I won’t be able to get girls, but who gives a fuck about girls and what they think. Who give sa fuck about getting laid. Fuck you, you women. Making men think they have to shred their soul for a cool sounding career so you can sit on your ass watching Ellen while some Mexican raises the baby. Eat a fucking dick. With your talk about jobs and what do you do. I’m a writer, I’ll say. What have you written? I’ll tell them I wrote Zero Dark Thirty. What the fuck do they know. Mark Boal won’t mind. I’ll tell them my name is David Foster Wallace and they can pretend to have read his stuff.
I’ll tell them I’m unemployed. I collect checks from the state to do nothing. This means I can drink copious amounts of Vons store brand liquor every night and still recuperate in the bath for enough time each morning to have a productive day. Which is to say, ninety minutes of making my hands move on the keyboard. Can you imagine. Writing four, five times as much shit. Sit in the bath reading Charles Bukowski, pop out when the water gets cold and crank out some pages. That’s the dream. Frankly, that shit sounds a lot easier to explain than the job I’m about to lose. If it doesn’t work out I’ll suck dick.