I write this at the edge, what I’m at the edge of I’m not sure it could be anger, love or just this damned TV show.
One thing in life I’ve always despised is punching the clock; working till fucking 9 till 5- I loathe it yet here I am in it. Living and breathing it every second until I can finally run off from the office block and into the car and drive off with Skid row booming from the stereo along with a half-assed smile on my face.
Though I know for a fact I ain’t alone in that feeling, hell that feeling is a necessary part of life and a very much unhappy part of it as well.
Though maybe the paycheck gives you a smile knowing that at least you ain’t going to end up on skid row this month with nothing but a bottle of scotch and some drunk poet to fall asleep too. Though drunk poets are poets to listen too and normally have words to live by as well as experiences to take notes on, assuming they don’t slur their speech.
Now excuse me just thinking about working and aging makes me want to put my fist through a fucking wall.
Oh and anyone got the number for a guy good at plastering walls?
I’ll let myself out.