Bad Day

Art Sucks. Film Blows. Music Stinks. Reading Tosses Salads.
I give up on culture and intellectual fulfillment, those pursuits have led me down a vast chasm of poverty and depression.
To hell with humanity.
I'm giving up and moving out.
Nobody cares about fine food except the bullshit people that the Refugee hates yet slaves for, and he calls me a working stooge. Why care?
Why?
Maybe I should get a wife, house, kids, dog, mistress, flatscreen TV, goldfish, erectile dysfunction, high blood pressure, mortgage, debt that i call wealth, investment portfolio, hernia, social anxiety, republican registration, and SUV.
This is what growing up means to me.

Clockwork

3:00 p.m. is break time. Down the elevator and across the street, for a mid-afternoon coffee pick-me-up. Yes, the caffeine is perky, the break stretches my legs and provides fresh air, but, really, I'm just getting my daily dose of hot barrista.

Gobbledygook

My Lord. the Refugee stands up, clears his throat, steps onto a soapbox, and says some gibberish filled with contradictions and meaningless phrases. Wow, that was hard to read, and I had such a nice day. He is right that he is everything I hate, he just gave me a headache. Where to start? First, he endorses the beauty of community by loving the exclusion of goal-oriented people. Then, he decries the emptiness of a "community coffee shop" to, immediately thereafter, praise the same shop for attempting community. Lastly, a pyramid's structural integrity comes from the weight being dispersed across a broad bottom base, so it does not have a backbone. I guess he's right in the sense that he's totally extraneous to the point of non-existence. Can't quibble with that. Oh well, I'll just give you another sandwich.