Dang,

I've never been a huge fan of yogurt myself--it leaves this funny, thick coating on your tongue and throat. My voice-box is just bathing in lactose..UUUGGGGHHH. I'm trying a new approach to the blog because clearly the whole thinking things out before I post them is keeping me from posting, which is the whole point. Well, which is a major point. one thing, something, a man is not one thing, one thing is not everything, but one thing is something, one thing means something....on with the show!!

I had a revelation today AKA a thought that just might be worth holding onto. The thought bubble popped up over my head (exactly as they do for Garfield the cat and the like) at lunch time, when my boss began decrying her lack of money. Immediately, my pink, curly-cued brain matter flashed-back to my last job and the many times I listened to the various higher-ups (I think everyone was higher up than me, well except for the receptionist and her lover/intern, but that's another story, er, paragraph) lament our impoverished magazine--whores, we called ourselves proudly, classy whores. Now some like to say mo money mo problems!

side note: a fire alarm is indeed going off. Do I have some sort of civic duty to leap out onto the street clad in pajamas, wooly socks and yogurt belly (damn you yoplait!). These are the sorts of things that can make you wonder about what it means to be a functioning member of society. I sit in the exit row on the airplane with good intentions, I avoid using the handicap restroom, pick up my cigarette butts and throw them in the trash, try to let people over if I'm not running late when driving and when the weird guy by the park with no teeth asks me to marry him, I try to give him a smile, but then, the fire alarm goes off and I feel like a real schmuck.

Ahem--mo money, mo problems! I've got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one. So the thing is, I think it might be advisable for me to seek employment in a place where the business owners aren't constantly exclaiming about their depleting bank accounts. I'm not saying there's a direct correlation between said bank accounts and my own salary frustrations...actually I am. That was the revelation. If I worked for profitable businesses, I might find myself earning a liveable wage. I think everyone else realized this when they were in, oh I'd say sixth grade, but I've always been a late bloomer. When puberty finally hit (15!?) I was like, "It's about fucking time." That lasted for about a week, before the emo and the cramps and pimples started doing their thing. After a few years, the hormone gold-rush slowed a bit: I looked up and realized 5'3" ain't that tall, looked down and knew I could easily hold onto my spot in the itty bitty titty committee (Valeka Nichols--are you out there rock star?)and the emo never really stopped. Blimey puberty!

Yeah, so maybe those last few sentences can shed some light on my not so lucrative professional ventures. My mother seems to think I could make a killing working the streets. I think the real problem, which I've been writing around, is the whole writing issue--want to make a go of it in publishing, the business, and possibly, publishing the me. Most people don't seem to think you can make any money doing that, including the higher-ups. But what happened to "Follow your bliss"? All due respect to Joseph Campbell, but it seems more and more that a loose interpertation for "bliss" is necessary if you want to hold onto your sanity, which I don't necessarily want to do. Hmmm...that's not quite right. Follow your bliss makes it sound too easy. I think Bukowski probably had it right: "No baby, if you're going to to create...you're going to create with a cat crawling up your back while the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment, flood and fire." Yeah, when I say Bukowski had it right, I mean he had it right about that, and some other things of course, and he's fucking brilliant, but you can't just say Bukowski had it right without qualifying it.

So to bring it back, the yogurt has digested, the fire-alarm has ceased crying and I'm still sitting in front of the computer by myself, which I think is one of the hardest things about creating in this way-- it's lonely and if anything worthwhile's gonna come out you have to throw a pretty honest lens on the world and yourself (says me). Why do I keep coming back here? Drawn and repelled, but in the end drawn. I can't vomit--really--but I find release in words. Other places too. In words a lot.