Transactions rule my life. I almost never interact with another person if they aren’t paying for something. When I’m not the one working then I’m the one paying. It’s a daily battery of exchanges and soul numbing exposure to faceless, interchangeable consumers.
It’s my job to be pleasant and helpful. Owners and managers of cafes like to make a big show of their hospitality. They say things like treat every customer like a guest in your home. It sounds warm and humane but I wouldn’t ever think of treating guests in my home like customers. I’d love to have another person in my life that wasn’t just passing through for coffee or experimental food.
We want people to be comfortable and happy here, just like a guest in your home. A guest in my home couldn’t possibly be comfortable. May I offer you a seat on my futon which doubles as my bed? Can I get you a frosty glass of tap water? My humanity is hollowed out from years of indulgence and isolation, would you like it if I pretended otherwise?
SUVs are bigger than my room. How can I best serve your needs here in this cramped space with no privacy, decent furniture, or food and drinks? We could watch a tangentially related assortment of crank youtube videos on unrestricted immigration. Perhaps you’d like to smoke some of my expertly cultivated marijuana? May I offer you the finest feelings of paranoid panic and slothlike stupor?
And now there’s a dog in the house. No one asked me if this was okay. This small black dog smells like a dumpster full of roadkill rectum. One of my roommates tried to give it a bath and now the bathroom reeks of rotting carcass at high noon. This house just wasn’t stark and filthy enough without a wayward shit mongrel pissing and barking all over the place.
When your own home is a wreck, you worry about the homeless. When your family is disintegrating, you signal your solidarity with refugees. You haven’t called your father in months but go ahead and call your senator and let them know you think Trump is an asshole.
I live the same way. I’m typing senseless dreck on a heap of trash. I refuse to do what I really need to do and focus instead on my fantasies of self expression. I’m an artist so it’s okay if I live in squalor. I don’t need to do laundry or shower because I’m a renegade blogger.
I have nuanced opinions but I live like a loveless junkie. I’m worried about leftist assault on free speech but I can’t even make it to the gym or cook decent food. Not that I can keep up with what’s happening in the world either. It’s a constant barrage of scandals and outrage converging on trivia. Someone eviscerated someone else on twitter over a reddit comment. Trump signed 14 more executive orders to execute hobo tranny mexicans and I just can’t wow I just can’t.
The Trump administration is running pipelines through the last remaining weather beaten wigwams. Another executive order was just passed that specifically targets Iranian doctors on the verge of curing cancer for deportation. Thanks to Trump my ass cancer rages unchecked. Putin is an evil man and he hacked the election. Never mind the Saudi money flowing into the Clinton Foundation.
What do you think about what this guy said about what that guy said about what this other guy thinks? Your comment is pending approval and evisceration by a gang of mutant internet scholars. We’d love to hear what you have to say as long as it’s what we’d love to hear. Otherwise we hate you and want you to die. Out of love for the disenfranchised.
I answered a craigslist ad looking for writers for a right wing news site. Sent in one of my sterling blog entries. The guy liked it and wanted to hire me but I turned it down after I checked out his site. It looks amateurish and petty. I already have that covered and I get to do it on my own time when I’m not serving DC’s elite dweebs.
Writing is a labor of love. I write out of a burning, passionate need to express myself and avoid the menial and tedious necessities that make up a successful life. Don’t pay me to do the one thing I enjoy.