Money is all you can talk about, huh? Well listen to me for a minute. Will that money buy you better posture after you’ve been sitting in a miserable, fluorescent-lit dungeon of an office for 26 years? Will that money let you just walk away for a minute to think about where you’d really like to go with your life? Will that money cooperate with you when you say you would like to pursue your dream for the sake of giving it a try? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Money is your master, your ever-loving abusive father, your nagging psychiatrist telling you that no combination of treatments is enough to cure your misunderstood condition. Money doesn’t care about how you earn it. You could shovel the shit of an elephant herd for sixty years to scrimp and save for that day that’ll never come. You could be a clown’s makeup consultant during breaks at the rodeo to get your daughter that doll she’s been bitching about for three months now. You could tear the insides out of an animal that had just been alive a minute ago (and make a pretty good wage) to finance that billiard room you always wanted. Money doesn’t give a shit or a giggle about how raw your hands get or how little ambition you end up with. Money is the essence of putrid bile, green and acidic, leeching the life out of the inherently good and stuffing the mouths of the opportunist slave drivers.
That’s what I think about your money. Bitch.
WHARVED 