If money could talk it would say goodbye (Ancient Proverb)

I’m tired. My current job is at a retirement community. I work at the Not So Functional section, where they put the old people who talk to their dead grandmothers and like undressing in public. I am a security guard, mainly nights, which mostly gives me time to write and spare change to pay my low rent and once a month – a Burrito, but it screws with my sleep real bad. Sometimes I’ll find myself lying in bed at 4 in the am awake as a 12 year old in a whorehouse, counting porn stars jumping over the fence (might be counter productive, I know, but you should try it. It’s really fun). But it’s better than other jobs I’ve had, I guess. Like Dress Up As Chicken And Hand Out Fliers job. Not cool. Cleaning a funeral home. Not very uplifting. At least this job most of the time I’m left alone. Once in a while an old bugger will wander the halls and try to pick a fight with random electric devices, and then I’m supposed to call the nurse, who is usually not hot or male or Mexican or something, so I just give them a pill from the stash I get from said nurse, who is usually more than thankful to sleep through the night. Faster and easier all around, everyone wins. Probably illegal or at least unethical but these are people abandoned by society and left to the mercy of unqualified misfits such as myself, so I guess it makes it, I don’t know, it makes it a sort of Who Cares situation. I’m not a total dick, I mean I’ve taken the responsible action of getting to know my shit: I’ve tried most of the pills. Some of those anti psychotics are pretty fucking wild, I’ll tell you that. This one time I took a pill that made me all jello in the knees and my hands were shaking for a day, I was walking like a real weirdo and got assisted into the mall and shit. Was kinda cool. I was hoping some of them would open my creative parts of the mind or help me concentrate, but mostly they’d make me dull and like fixated on stuff. I’ll like sit in front of my laptop and be thinking about a scene and be like: right, it’s dark and the protagonist is walking Where? Main Street. Right. What then? Then I’ll stare into space for an hour and snap out and I’m like, right, where was I? Protagonist is walking down the street. Which street? Main Street. Right. He has a bug in his shoe. Cool. a ladybug. Which street is it? Main Street. That’s a big street. Are there bugs on Main Street? Probably. Who is this man? His name is Bob. Right. And then I’ll doze off for three hours straight and look at the screen and it’ll look like:

EXT. MAIN ST. NIGHT.

Bob is walkkjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

k

Which is less than you’d expect from a night’s worth of work. So I’m slowly getting to know my meds, which are uppers and which are downers. Unfortunately mostly at night what old psychos need is downers, but every now and then I’ll hit on a sweet anti depressant and I’ll be like yeah, let’s write dude, and I’ll sit in front of the laptop and I’m so fucking happy I just wanna love someone but there ain’t nobody to love, so I shout: GOD, I LOVE MY COCK! Which is true most of the time, but not always appropriate.

I sort of forgot what I wanted to say. Yeah, it was about the annoying necessity of making money and about waking up in weird hours. It’s really frustrating. It gets so there’s no point in staying in bed, so I sit at my computer and start surfing, reading blogs and stuff, and as sure as all rivers flow to Rome, I end up downloading hardcore porn.

Kinda looks like me I guess. Also it's a nice visual illustration of the complex and abstract ideas of this post. Found it on Flickr. Cool.

What is it about porn? How many virtual boobs can one consume without becoming boobie-numb? I estimate I’ve been through roughly Nine Million individual boobies, and still each time it’s like falling in love for the first time. It is the most steady and meaningful relationship I’ve ever had.

I’ve said enough for today.

101 Ways to make Ketchup - No. 48 - Boob Press - Photo + caption by Mylor, cc-by-na