Walked past the soda guy — the guy that fills up the vending machines — as I came in. All he does all day is drive around from place to place spending twenty minutes here, twenty minutes there wheeling crates of soda around and shoving them in machines. Every now and then he says hello to someone walking past, or answers a question about what gets put in them… but he never smells a place for more than half an hour at a time, and half of his day is spent in his truck by himself.
**I want that job.**
Sadly, I don’t think it would pay the bills around here. I make nearly $3k a month and I can barely afford to live now, what with $3 gas, $900 rents and $50k in student loans.
I was just in Chicago. I swear, I was fscking just in Chicago like last week.
Bought a TV last night for $35. It came with a free computer. Got a TV stand with wheels for $2. Not bad. It all falls under “things I must have when living alone.” Also on the list:
– Lights. Lots and lots of lights
– At least one windchime
– Working e-diary machine (i.e. Webpad/newton)
– Good booze, like Revelstoke, Jagermeister, or Alandia
– Cable, for C-SPAN and cable news
– Microwave oven
– Video games, lots of video games
– Self-possession and a long-term plan
This will all be gone in a minute. As much as I have mixed feelings about the present and the next four or five months, I also am altogether too aware of the fact that they’ll be behind me in what seems like an instant, and just like that, without any fanfare or friction, I’ll be half a year closer to death.
Half a year spent in a cubicle.
Or, is that:
Half a year spent in a cubicle?
Is it possible to strike a “balance” between responsibility and dreaming, or are they two things that aren’t just mutually exclusive, but that belong to entirely different spheres of existence or philosophy?
Am I sitting here gasping without realizing it, a fish out of water?
Worse, am I gradually growing lungs and losing gills, dminishing my chances of ever returning to the water again?
Nonsense. It’s all nonsense. It’s all crap.
Hemmingway is a genius. Proust is a bigger one. Dostoevsky is the biggest of them all.