indolent wastrels

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Everything is always so backwards for me.

I like getting to work. Everything seems more fun at midnight. I set up my laptop and work for six hours and maybe watch an episode of Breaking Bad. It’s cool. My least favorite time of the day is leaving work; for that last hour or so, mundane things can happen, and i no longer feel like a cool slacker artist gaming the system — i feel like a brainless grunt saying “yessir” and “nosir.” Then there’s the rush hour traffic, the blinding sunlight, and the overall depressing sight of the lower west side of Nashville dragging itself out of its stupor for one more pointless day.

I like waking up as the sun is going down. I have three hours to do whatever i want before leaving for work. Three awesome hours… but i hate coming home and going to sleep at noon. No matter how much i’ve done during the day, it never feels like enough. So i take two Alteril pills and try to fill my brain with some kind of sexy fantasy, because if i lay in bed and think about my own life, i’d just go around in circles and circles forever.

Raaah.

After all the years of wondering about the future of my shit job, the changeover happens on July 1st. The only changes so far are: a measly fifty-cent raise and black shirts instead of white ones. Honestly, i’m more excited about the new shirts than i am the piddling pay increase. Fifty cents, what the fuck. But those black shirts are radical.

I keep thinking about the swanky rich kids that Farine alluded to once or twice, the lucky bastards from rich families and Ivy League schools. The jobs they do, what do they really involve? Writing proposals and reports, juggling numbers, attending meetings, sending emails, going on busines trips? Or are there incredibly complex tasks involved that i’m not privy to? Complex chemical formulas and algebraic equations, architectural problems involving load-bearing walls and stress tests, split-second decisions and eloquent speeches and grand proposals of fabulous vision?

I wonder about the swanky world. I’ve never gotten anywhere near it. I am a slumgullion. I am a guttersnipe. I am poor fat trash. Ain’t never been shit my whole life.

Muna leaves in a week or so. I hope she comes back.

She seems to have gotten bored of Breaking Bad. That sucks. That was our show. Wasn’t there one night where i got no work done because we watched like six episodes of season four? But this final season is complex and a bit talky, and she loses the thread because she’s always on her phone….

…you know, that drives me crazy. For anyone under the age of 25, the act of paying attention to anything for one hour without grabbing their phone seems completely impossible. I read articles about kids in 7th grade who are totally addicted to their devices, who check Facebook every 3 minutes, and suffer withdrawal symptoms if deprived of their gadgets… and i think, holy fuck, we are fucking doomed. How is this mentally-mutated generation of toolbrained meat puppets going to achieve anything?

I’m probably overreacting. You tell me.

When Muna takes her leave of absence, Dahir is probably doomed. He used to be my favorite person to work with, but now i’m damn near sick of the guy. He can barely stay awake, and has developed a new pissy attitude towards everything. I tell him — listen, man, you’ve been here a year, and you’ve been working with two people who are more responsible than you and take care of everything — so, basically, you’ve earned upwards of twenty grand just for showing up, smoking cigarettes, and sleeping. That’s not a bad deal, so why do you go around with this chip on your shoulder, like this place owes you something?

(You’re proving the conservatives right! They say if poor people have their needs met automatically, they become indolent wastrels, and that’s what you’re doing! Man!)

He acts like he’s exhausted because he’s selflessly helping his family members, swamped with errands and such… but that’s bullshit. He’s partying and trying to fuck as many girls as possible. And like a lot of Middle Eastern guys, he has that freakishly nasty view of women — he thinks every girl needs to sleep with him, and if they don’t, they’re miserable bitches. But if they do, then they’re dirty worthless sluts who should be ignored and lied to. And then he says that women must follow the Koran and stay pure until marriage?

What the fuck. I hope George Bush bombs your lousy country, you cigarette-bumming patchy greaseball.

Sigh. We used to have good times.

The sad thing is, even though i’m sick of the guy, i hope he stays. Because every time i lose a coworker, there’s always the very good chance they’ll be replaced by someone worse, someone who might interfere with my business by being a snitch, a company man, a busybody, or just an annoying chatterbox. A zero is always preferable to a negative. Gosh, i feel just like Walt in season five! After Jesse quits, Walt replaces him with Todd — who is a soulless, empty-headed little punk who just grunts and does whatever Walt tells him to do. Painful to work with, but he doesn’t get in the way.

Hell, Nilley might even want to come to the night shift, if it meant escaping Omohundro. That’s the worst-case scenario.

I haven’t seen Nilley in six months, but just the memory of that man helps my diet. Whenever i think of getting a fast-food sandwich or nabbing some of my brother’s candy stash, i think of Nilley, waddling around with his three bags of food, chips and cupcakes and lard casserole and Mello Yello and… a salad, what the hell?

I’m eating healthier every week. Almond milk. Salad. Steamed carrots. Turkey-avocado sandwiches. Oily fish. Water and more water. Sugarless coffee. Salmon and onions and brussels sprouts.

I feel pretty good.

Still fat.

Now if everyone else around me would get their act together.

Two months ago, i got a rush of customers all wanting drawings. I accepted ten or so jobs, and told them how long they’d have to wait for me to get started… and now, as i get near the other half of my queue, most of them are either absent, or indecisive, or telling me to hold off a bit because the money is in transit.

Sigh. Be decisive, people. And if money is that tight, why are you even hiring someone to produce digital art for your personal enjoyment? That’s a luxury service. My drawings aren’t meth.

Meth, good god.

I still say the reason i quit drugs is because they all suck compared to glass-grade meth. There’s no alcohol, no bag of weed, no pill or tab or mushroom that can hold a candle to a pure amphetamine rush. It’s like comparing apples to GOD.

Remember, i said glass-grade. Not the brown shit made in some redneck’s toilet. The clean stuff that fighter pilots still get in most countries so they can stay awake for 72 hours, the stuff enjoyed by writers from Philip K. Dick to W.H. Auden. The stuff they used to prescribe to people in the ’60s for over-toil and housewife bloat.

That stuff.

I dunno.

This entire entry has been nothing but me complaining, but believe me, i feel pretty good. Drawing for money. Black shirts. Almond milk. Puppies and dogs. The new apartment still is awesome, a new BT album on the way, and the last eight episodes of Breaking Bad will be along soon.

Life’s not bad, yo.

Solstice. It’s all downhill from here. The race to October 1st begins…

nownownownownownownow.

And i don’t know where the sunbeams end and the starlight begins, it’s all a mystery. And i don’t know how a man decides what’s right for his own life, it’s all a mystery.

Yeaaaah.

Life’s okay.

Except i can’t stop talking about that show. If you’ve never seen it, here’s an excellent fan-made preview. Sometimes, previews are even better than the real thing.