20 class a cigarettes
The hiring session for union pacific was this morning but I left early. The woman explained the job and explained the hours, explained and explained some more. She talked for an hour and a half, then she told us to go call home.

The bright side of the job: I would be making 75 thousand dollars after five years. The health insurance is the lexus of health insurances, if you will, and I would have the most beautifulest tatoos ever.

The gloomy side of the job: The hours blow donkey dick, work 12 hours, have ten hours off, work twelve hours, blah blah blah. I would have to quit having...a life, any sort of life whatsoever. On call 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. No drinking alcohol, no drugs, no smoking cigarettes, no, no, no.

My train of thought as I was sitting there: I need to grow up and get a real job, I'm scared to get this job, I won't pass the drug test, for love or for money, for love or for money, for love or for money, I am crazy what am I doing here, I would have shittloads of money and no time to spend it, I will never have any sort of lasting relaionship in my life, I do not want to live my life alone.

Railroaders have the highest divorce rate of any occupation in the country, isn't that scary? yikes.

So, I left. Goddamn money. I hate that I am like this. All I want is money because I've never had it, but whats the point of having money if it means you cant have love. And to me, that is basically what it boiled down to, love or money, and I chose love.

how fuckin' sappy.

So, I blew off work and went over to Ian's house. He got a 1972 mercury cougar convertible, its sparkly green . We cruised around all morning with the top down, and he raced people and wasted gas. He got the car last night around sevenish and he's already put fifty dollars worth of gas in it. I go through fifty dollars of gas in about...a month or something.

But whatever, he's a boy and boys think they need muscle cars.

My dog bit a hole in my ranicd [and out come the wolves] cd,

someone make a design in my yard with gasoline, I know this because there are swirlies of dead grass in the yard and an empty gas can,

and someone keeps kicking and/or moving my concrete goose off my front steps. The question of the morning, every morning, is where will the goose be today.

gotta go gotta go gotta go right now.

!<-- - -->?


lucky
September 07, 2004 - 1:49 pm