I’m hell-bent on causin’ a ruckus, yessir. I’ve got all the implements, motivation too. Now all that’s left is the sweet smell of havoc.
Now you must be askin’ yourself: “Why does this dude keep talkin’ the talk without so much as a step in the demolition direction?”
Stop that thinkin’ right there, friend. You think I’m chicken? I’ve been bustin’ shit since you were in the womb, don’t give me that grief.
In fact, I don’t know why you even bothered to open your mouth and dispute me. You are some piece of work, you know that?
Of course you do.
Now, while we’re young, why don’t you run over to the corner store and grab me a bottle of Jack.
Don’t give me any of that lip. Jack helps me think. It’s a doin’ man’s drink. You wouldn’t understand that, sweetheart.
You don’t mind if I call you sweetheart, do ya, darlin’?
Didn’t think so.
The day after we lost our conscious billing cycle, all hell broke loose. We threw money at all our problems in the hope that they wouldn’t surface again until the next month. No ledgers, no account balancing, no clear plan for the electric bill.
We absolutely lost it and spent our time worrying about existential matters. Why are we here? Where are we going? How do we grow as autonomous beings when we inhabit a suffocating hive mentality of a society?
I went to the store for a super ball–
couldn’t find any.
I did find big bouncers,
calibrated latex orbs,
limited edition high-flying sky cutters,
360-degree vortex vaulters
and rubber rabble rousers.
But they’re just not the same.
D: I’m fed up with this place. I’m tired and alone.
O: So you’re just going to forget to acknowledge my presence?
D: I can’t believe you put up with me.
O: Well, it does get difficult sometimes. Come on, you don’t honestly feel like a crotchety old hermit. You’re 22 years old.
D: That’s my body’s age, yes. Based upon the accumulation of my worldly experience in this life, I’ve concluded that being a cynical old fart is really the way to go.
O: But if you really mean that, there’s nothing I can do.
D: It’s my life and my decision.
O: So you won’t mind if I jump off a bridge.
D: You wouldn’t do that.
O: Why do you care?
D: I don’t know, but I do.
O: Is this the classic Dickensian change of heart, Mr. Scrooge?
D: No, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. Fuck everyone else.
N: Is this an appropriate mindframe?
P: Which one?
N: The gilded one on the left with the portrait of the 19th century fox hunt.
P: Looks expensive.
N: Isn’t that the point? Isn’t aristocracy the goal?
P: For some people, I guess. How about that one on the right?
N: Oh, the one slapped together with reclaimed wood and organic whitewash? What’s that picture in there, an alien scape with two suns in a green sky? I don’t understand it.
P: Nobody understands it. That’s what’s so beautiful about it.
N: But it’s practically free! It’s obvious that nobody wants it.
P: Or it’s so abundant and wonderful that the creator wants to share it with as many people as possible.
N: You’re a terrible salesperson.
P: You’re a terrible human being.
A pretty verse is all you ever wanted, you say. Pretty. Pretty dull. What does it challenge? What does it make you think? Why does the rhyme scheme have significance?
Does it look forward to recounting the past as the present sees it?
If it’s a vacuum, a glass jar preserving cute language like a vat of liquid nitrogen poured on a rose, you’re in the wrong place.
I am well-versed in the perpetuation of this filth, this inexorable dust clinging to the shelf life of an English Writing grad in limbo between academic fulfillment and the beatdown waiting for him in the dank corners of the business world.