Clock Puncher

Have I said this before? Maybe. Fuck it. These words were meant for MARSocial, but I think they have a word cap so if they want to read it, they can read it here.

Many days, I feel hopeful. I feel like my life is going somewhere. I write, I submit, I wait. And wait. And wait. And--OK hold on. What's with all this WAITING? I suppose it's just the name of the game. Problem is, I'm not the average person. I can't stand punching a clock. When I punch a clock at a square job I REALLY WANT TO PUNCH THE CLOCK. And then begins the 8-10 or even 12 hour conundrum of bullshit paying maybe $300.00 a week after taxes. The time draws out like a piece of glass embedded in my arm. 8 hours takes 5 weeks to pass. People wonder what's wrong with me. "Why don't you ever smile? Why don't you ever talk?" I never answer them. Why? Because if I did I would end up screaming "BECAUSE I FUCKING HATE THIS SHIT!" And it's true. I hate doldrums, I hate meaningless jobs. I can't stand the system and the only people I respect are other artists. For years I turned to drugs and drink to soothe the anguish, but those were just a crutch, so I quit. Many days I wish I had not. The last job I had, a thought ran through my head: "You're wasting your life." After that, a machine broke, and the supervisors blamed it on me and fired me. Well, that's OK. If they hadn't I'm sure I would have walked out anyway.

Now, I write. All the time. Unless I'm drawing. I submit and wait, as I said. And while I'm waiting I feel like I'm wasting my life. Like everything is just passing by in a constate state of gloaming. I try to paste on a smile for my wife. I try to have fun. Fiction helps me escape. My checkered (to say the least) past helps me come up with some of the most demented horror stories on paper. A few have seen print, but not enough.

If I have a point here, it is that I'm sick and tired of waiting, I'm not normal at all...something's wrong with me. I spend a lot of time writhing. I don't post stuff that is rife with positivity and exclamation points because if I did, I'd be a liar. Or a phony. And I'm no good at being either or. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't appreciate every friend I have, be they online or in real life. I do. My heart is bigger than my brain which is smaller than my mouth and none of them run at the same speed. What can I say? In short, I'm all fucked up. And yes, I'm in therapy, in case you wonder. It helps about as much as a coca-cola enema. All of this crap said, I'm glad to be here. Thanks for having this lunatic.