Where do you go, what do you do, when you just don’t feel like you belong in the world as it is? What do you do when you feel, and have felt your whole life, as if you were programmed for another type of existence? Do you know the answer, because I sure don’t. I feel as if I could survive better in a post apocalyptic waist-land then I do in today’s modern society. Zombies would make more sense to me then working myself to the bone at some place like McDonalds all for the chance to spend all of my time away from my family and still not have enough to live on? No thanks. I’ll pass.
I’m not built for this world. Not programmed for this shit. Why am I here, then? Some deep instinct, some unexplainable, driving need, leads me to prepare for some apocalypse that…will never fucking come. Why? It just seems like some cosmic joke and maybe a mistake. And I’m not the only person around programmed as I am. I know I’m not. So why are we here? Is it perhaps society and the unfair confusion of a corrupt system that drives me, and other like me, to long for the end of this type of society or is it something deeper? Shit, I don’t know. I’m rather sure that no one does. Maybe we’re all just insane. That answer would make sense to me.
I hate this society. I really do. I’ve hated the setup for this life since my earliest memories and trying to force myself to play this sick, fucked up, twisted ass game makes me feel rather crazy, bent, and just a little warped. Forget for just a moment to factor in the part about me being trans on top of everything else, and look at how difficult just surviving has become even before transition. I can’t get a job unless I want to work for shit pay at some fast food joint that, even though, by the end of it all, I’d be working ALMOST a forty hour week, I wouldn’t be making anything close to a living wage. And that’s living in such a way and place that I need LESS than the poverty level income to make everything run smooth, come off of food stamps, and still have left over. So my choice is sacrifice my time with my family for shit pay that really -REALLY!!!- won’t help me any, won’t change much, or do without basic necessities like, oh, I don’t know, SOAP! and where does that leave me? Scrounging from one dollar to the next, that’s where.
Yeah. Small wonder that I long for the end of the world as we know it. If society collapsed at least then the skills that I possess would hold real, significant value. When you’re the only one close by who can fix and or make the little things in life you’re suddenly an in demand person when barter and trade is all you’ve got.
Fuck me. Fuck it all. What the hell are we all suppose to do? Keep feeding a broken system in the hopes that the rest of the world won’t realize that they, and everyone else, is selling their souls, lives, time, mental health, you name it, for pretend money that is worth less than toilet paper? I mean, think about it, if money can be printed at the drop of a fucking hat, then what’s so great about it? It’s not rare, or beautiful, or useful for anything outside of being, well, money. It’s not backed by anything. Not gold, or diamonds, or jewels or even fire wood. It’s just cotton rag paper. That’s it. That’s all. It’s not gold embellished, powdered with silver, or laced with pot, so what good is it really? As soon as everyone realizes that it’s just a worthless bit of paper, we’ll be better off. Hell, British pounds are worth more. At least their money is backed by gold. They can’t print it non stop just because they feel like it.
Yet we’re incurraged to go into debt so deep we’ll never see our way out for it. We’re taught to kill for it, hoard it, value it above the lives of our children and loved ones. We’re suppose to crave it, want it, love it, see it as the most precious thing in the world when, really, it’s Monopoly money. It’s fake, pretend, useless. Yeah, I want to give up my every free moment to chase after it. Fuck that shit. Really.
When I worked for Pizza Slut I never got to see my family. Not ever. My garden died. My home got over run by weeds because of a part time job. PART TIME! The truth though was that it wasn’t really part time. If it really had been the 20 hour a week job I’d signed up for all would have been good. No. I was working WAY more than that, all for shit pay, not to mention travel time, and wasn’t even getting payed for all of the time I put into the place. What a joke that was. So now what?
Now I’m back to where this whole thing began. Stuck between fucked up the ass and screwed into the dirt. Where do I go, where do any of us go, from here? What should I do? Try to sell my art work into a world that thinks a fucking DOT in the middle of a giant white canvas is art!? Yeah, I can soooo see my stuff selling. But what choice do I have but to try and, inevitably, fail and be worse off then I began because I’ll just have more junk that no one wants except myself cluttering up my space. Great prospect, aren’t they? All for the want of worthless green cotton? HA! Lovely thought, that.