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.