Jobs & Junkies

A coward dies a thousand deaths. I die at least once for every day I don't quit this job I hate. I can't brave the cold streets, the lack of money, the lack of this and that. I can't brave the discomfort. I've been there, and I miss it sometimes, but I can't go back to it, like a crazy wife you still love but left with good reason. And so, the days eat my hours and the years eat my days. Perhaps one day this life will eat what's left of my soul, but for now I hold on tight to the scraps. Life. What a game. Some know all the moves, whilst the rest of us haven't a single clue what the fuck is going on. 

I work my little job, take my little wage back to my little flat, drink a little whisky with the window open, and let the night's cool air make itself at home. I listen to the hoarse screams of a junky couple out in the street, arguing. Woman on offense, man on defense. A great classic. An eternal repeat episode, but still one of my favourites. Most people these days haven't passion or courage enough to make a public display of their hate for their love. The fact that they reenact this scene most nights is a testament to the bond they share. Maybe her first time was with him. Doing smack, I mean. 

I've been there too. Drunk and screaming obscenities into the abyss. I started that night in a club and awoke the next morning in the middle of nowhere amongst cows. In the shit where I belong. Phone and wallet missing. But that's a story for another time because I can't be bothered to write that one right now, and I'm yet to finish this one. 

I guess the moral of this story is this; quit your job and smoke heroin. 

Fin.