Life is a big fucking boring waste of time if you’re a nobody.
You get a job, work it for almost half of your life in complete anonymity — that’s if you’re lucky enough and don’t get laid off, fired or outsourced — and then, when you’re too old to do the shit you’d have done when younger but couldn’t since you had to occupy that cubicle instead, you finally fucking retire and, yes, sit at home all day watching t.v. or surfin’ the Internet. The same fucking thing you do now, except for spending half your day at work.
I can’t say it any better than Charles Bukowski did about life in general for the 99.9 percent of us who’re regular and insignificant Joes and Janes. Here’s a few lines from his poem Born Into This:
Born like this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
And here’s some lines from Cause & Effect:
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
would ever want to
I can’t wait for the Big Sleep. This living shit is wearing me out, especially after almost 48 years of it, and with over half of those l o n g years spent as a working stiff. I’m bored. I don’t sleep well. I’m going grey. I got a big, disgusting gut. The hair on the top of my head is thinning. And, if not for my right hand, I would never get laid.
If I ever won the lotto I’d probably just lay in bed all day saying “Fuck all y’all” over and over and do nothing, just like I do nothing now. But with money at least I wouldn’t have to worry about bills. I think that alone would relieve a lot of my drug-controlled stress (thank the Gods for Effexor XR) and teeth grinding at night. I could get laid, too, with that kinda cash. And get really good drugs, like coke and some of that pot grown from Amsterdam seeds, the kind that is an extremely light shade of green, contains no seeds, no stems and is very soft and fluffy, melting away quickly as you fire it up and suck on your bong.
Then, and only then, would life be worth living.
Right now, however, if a car or truck runs me over and I’m deader than a doornail I’d be very happy ’cause my life sucks, has sucked, never didn’t suck and probably will continue to suck. So suck on it, mothersuckers.
A friend of mine, who just retired after almost 30 years at the same god damn job site, wrote me this e-mail the other day, “I am now a non-productive, useless drunk old fuck on a pension. I got Jane (his cat) some little plastic balls with a bell inside each one. She loves to chase them all over the house then bring each one back to me and then I throw each one out for her to catch again and bring back to me. That’s about all I do now. Soon, I’ll die, probably in bed, and will be rotting away when someone from the county hauls away what is left of my carcass.”
But soon thereafter he wrote me again. This time he was full of life, the sort of full of life feeling you get when one is in horrid, non-stop pain, especially the kind that one could have avoided if one had been a little more careful instead of carefree. His e-mail:
“THE HABANERO PEPPER IS ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL THINGS ON EARTH. I’VE GOT A SINGLE PLANT GROWING OUT IN MY NOW DEFUNCT SQUASH GARDEN, AMONG THE DEAD PLANTS OF LAST SUMMER. THE LEAVES OF THE HABANERO BUSH I HAVE ARE SHINY AND GREEN AND HEALTHY AND THERE ARE PROBABLY 40 BRIGHT ORANGE HABANERO PEPPERS DANGLING FROM THE BUSH. I DECIDED TO MAKE UP SOME HOMEMADE CHILI THIS MORNING AND I CLIPPED TWO TINY ORANGE HABANERO PEPPERS FROM THE BRIGHT GREEN BUSH. WHILE I FRIED UP A POUND OF HAMBURGER I CHOPPED UP THE PEPPERS AND THREW THEM IN THE MIX WITH ONIONS, PINTO BEANS, TOMATOES, ETC. I DO NOT RECALL RUBBING MY EYES, LIPS, OR ESPECIALLY, MY BALLS. BUT RIGHT NOW, I WILL TELL YOU, MY EYES ARE TEARING UP, AND I AM NOT SAD, MY LIPS FEEL LIKE I PUT GASOLINE ON THEM AND SET THEM ON FIRE AND MY BALL SACK FEELS LIKE A COLONY OF ARMY ANTS HAVE TAKEN UP CAMP UPON IT. THE MORAL TO THIS TALE IS THIS: RESPECT THE HABANERO PEPPER, EVEN IF YOU ARE PISSED OFF AT MEXICANS INVADING US, NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A HABANERO PEPPER. EVER.”
I don’t know the point of this, what I’ve said here. I don’t really care. It’s just your typical bitching from a guy who knows the score of his one life and that score is a big fat ZERO.