You took a little every day until I didn’t have shit. Two years off and on and not even the chance to quit, just a letter on a fridge that I got from human resources.
I know that six weeks was kind of a bit much and that nothing is forever, and that nothing should be. Someday it all stops and I can’t sleep now because I’m not a real fucking adult but I guess now I’ll have my life from 7 to 6:45. Marie! Marie! Marie! I’m sorry I’ve been too busy for the promise of an unfulfilling life.
The risks I took were mine to take. We couldn’t communicate in anything but rote responses and shit eating grins. And everything starts dwindling when it’s all built on power trips and pandering power trips and pandering.
The letter arrived yesterday. I didn’t have a drop to drink. I had to play and drive four hours to Brooklyn to my apartment of dirty shit and 1,000 lonely days ahead.
But I guess now I’ll have my life with red and black out of my eyes. Marie! Marie! Marie! I’m really stoked you set me free from the promise of an unfulfilling life where I can pay my bills and pass out at eleven and not wake up in the morning and start feeling bad. Worst case of the Mondays that I’ve ever had though I treat every weekday like a Saturday night except for drinks I can’t afford. A can of Shmidty’s, nothing more. I need some more security than that provided by choosing between a job you hate, a job you hate and a job that doesn’t pay. I got too caught up with me to behave responsibly. Michael, Nathan and Christine, I’ve got no rent, Marie! Marie!
I was arguing with cops while I had a fake moustache on, poorly handling emotions, swimming naked in the ocean, breaking bottles all over your floor and leaving without our passports, drinking gin and Zicam until 2 AM while playing rock band, inviting myself into homes of strangers to drink all alone, leaving sweat-soaked boxers on a bar ‘cause they said “put a t-shirt on,” acting irresponsibly and trying to make a choice between a job you hate and a job that doesn’t pay.