sick and dirty

The bus is a box that takes me to work. I choose not to read this day, I look out the window, I look at the women, mainly, who get on the bus (I'm not proud. Teevee conditions me to look at their breasts. Sue me). I reach my stop and get off and leave my wife and the breasts of the not-my-wives behind, I walk to the building where my job is, I take the elevator, I arrive at the same old place, with my two computers and piles of papers. With my thwarted potential and my guilt and my work ethic and my sense of pride, with all of it that waits for me every day. I work.

I push papers, I push buttons, a shove my little pie wedge of the great wheel of commerce around. I am a wage slave, a working stiff, a consumer, a producer, I am working. Gotta pay for this house, this bus pass, these years of intensive therapy, the juice for this computer that allows me to archive the annals pf the pentagon files, to no clear end that I can see.

And the clock, that sometimes I fight and sometimes I try to hold back and sometimes I pray to move faster and sometimes I let be and sometimes I merely observe, follows its relentless and reliable (if unpredictable) course around the dial, and it reaches the configuration that says it's okay to go home, and I go home.

klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.