At what point does persistence become stupidity?
I’m done. I’m retiring. I can’t get a fucking callback for a fucking Toyota commercial! The game is rigged and I’m sick and tired of thinking that maybe THIS time it will fall on my side. Seriously.
Mom dies, I lose my job, I lose my house, I lose two major organs, Dad puts a bullet in his head. I mean, I look at that and think, “I should buy a lottery ticket! The odds are gonna be SICK when they finally fall in my favor!” And I can’t get arrested in this town.
Who the hell follows their dreams and has it pay off? I have to think it happens often enough for people to still consider doing it. But that old mantra of having something to fall back on is playing in my head. So now I’m done bitching and going to explore some other avenues of existence. I may take votes. I may not. But here are a few of what I like to think are viable alternatives.
1. COMMUNAL LIVING GOAT FARM IN MANZANITA
Before you go off on how much you hate the smell of patchouli, hear me out. This is going to be a grown-up commune. We will raise goats because I like goats and we need something to make cheese and they are heartier and more friendly than cows. We will run a coffee shop/piano bar that makes killer coffee drinks during the day and serves killer beer at night. The menu will change according to what is seasonal and fresh and hasn’t been eaten by the goats. My best friend of… wow… thirty years almost is a brilliant botanist, so we will have all kinds of veggies and herbs and stuff. I also am not above putting her in charge of baked goods. I am deadly with an espresso machine and deft at the tap, and I’m pretty sure my husband can dust off his piano-playin’ knuckles, which should cover our livelihood and entertainment. Everybody gets their own living space, but there will be group meals and childcare because that’s just better. Personal hygiene will be mandated.
No, there’s a point to it. First, we train the kids to train dogs. Then we assign each kid a dog to train, groom, and find a home for. This accomplishes not only getting them off the streets, but gives them some viable socialization and work skills. “They” being either the dogs or the kids. You pick. I may harken back to the communal living idea and teach some of the other kids to grow and cook food for everybody so we can eat and they can go get jobs. It will be out in the middle of nowhere and I will be the only person armed. Discipline will be simple… No One Will Find Your Body, So Don’t Fuck Up. This idea appeals to my desire to make the world a better place, as well as idealistically assuming I would be surrounded by creatures who owe me their very existence and therefore would adore me. (However, I am a parent, so I understand how inherently flawed that logic turns out to be.)
To be honest, I really would like to have a lot more visible tattoos. Also, I would really like to have white dreadlocks. Maybe a few more piercings. I figure if I spent a few months turning my body into the temple I really wished I inhabited, it would result in withdrawing from a segment of society. (You say “being ostracized”, I say “withdrawing”. Tomayto, tomato.) I could then live my dream of being the weird, alternative lifestyle sage. I would happily dance to tunes in my head as I served warm beer in dirty glasses at a local dive bar. Customers would return, waiting for pearls of wisdom to drop from my lips with flair, sass, and a shadow of God’s own Grace. I would set up a table on Venice Beach with a sign that says, “Free Listening. Five Minutes.” and see what kind of stories I hear. I would finally get that Free Hugs sandwich board and wear it downtown. I’m not exactly sure where I’d live, but something would work out.
I’d get a big, weird apartment somewhere warm and work, I dunno, maybe three months out of the year? Just enough to qualify for health insurance, but most of my time would be spent walking my dogs, attending 12-step meetings, playing with my kid and cooking. I’d have so much free time that I’d have to INVENT things to make me feel pressured and obligated. I wouldn’t know the difference between a weekday and a weekend day. I’d be so unaccustomed to how the Real World works that I’d dabble in all sorts of stuff I wouldn’t actually be able to do, but I’d merrily display my results in the most public way possible. I’d start writing a blog, stop to go have sex with my husband, then come back and finish it ALL DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS! I’d complain that I was tired when I got less than eight hours of sleep. I’d spend time only with people I really love, traveling often to see them. I’d probably stress about not having enough money, even though I always somehow have enough to be happy… HEY! WAIT A MINUTE!
I love it when my writing is therapeutic.