If I had a dollar for every day I couldn’t remember

I’m paying off medical debt and working 60 hours a week. Making coffee for the upper crust and living among tranny hookers and homos. My nights are late and my morning early. Some days I get by on 3 hours of sleep. Thank goodness I’m not doing anything important or mentally challenging because I would surely fuck it up. The worst thing that can happen when I make a mistake is a bitter cup of coffee.

Coffee is bitter for most people anyway and they wouldn’t know the difference. But I know the difference, and it matters in this ultra trivial and frivolous world of insider’s coffee performance. I used to play Bach and Brouwer on guitar. Now I pour foam patterns onto the surface of drinks. People stare with slack jaws and then say, now that’s an art. 

Yes, I’m a real artist now. All those years reading sheet music and forcing my fingers to make tiny, controlled movements have finally paid off. Playing the most beautiful and exulted pieces of western music were only preparation for my true calling. A melody that lives in your heart forever is nothing next to a cream leaf flower that will be destroyed in seconds.

I’ve trained myself to produce something that breaks down and collapses into an ugly mess right before your eyes. People take what I make and then pour sugar and cream into it. Imagine someone looking at a painting and then slinging paint all over it. Imagine someone playing the kazoo over a Haydn symphony. What I make is not important and is senselessly consumed by people on the way to their jobs.

People want art to be valuable but it isn’t. We’re either working too much or not enough to appreciate anything. The earth is drowning in extraneous people and their piddling products. All day long it’s one sales pitch after the next. Everyone wants to do everything for you but you have no money or time for them. No one can pay anyone else but we’re all ready to debase ourselves for a dollar and a moment’s worth of attention.

I’m a living stereotype, a punchline. A liberal arts majoring barista. An economically redundant and ethnically blunted nobody. It all happened so fast. The days melt into each other. The past drains away and the future brings sickness and death. Thinking about how senseless and empty life is should send me on a quest for transcendence. But I don’t have the energy. What little vitality I have is burned up managing the minimum.

Maybe there’s grace in this life but it would have to come from somewhere else. My current life feels like a throwaway Beckett play. Disembodied thoughts and disoriented wanderings. Waiting for the undefinable while babbling to inanimate objects in front of an absent audience. I don’t even have the meager consolation of critical acclaim.

Today is my one day off, which means it’s the one day I have to do all the unpleasant things I can’t do during the rest of the week. The only break from work is more work. And yet I’ve managed to find a sliver of time to write. It’s a small victory but I’ll take it.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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