Rage on a Page

I’m pissed off today. Granted, I am usually angry at something a minute after the coffee surges through my brain but the rage levels are higher today than usual.  I’m writing this shit down to rid myself some of this toxic angst.

See, it’s Sunday, and Sunday is the day before Monday. Yeah, no duh. But that to me, that means that my next 16 hours are shot to hell as I think about a way to keep myself from slipping into the giant gaping hole of despair that I’m supposed to jump over until Friday gets here again.  And man, I don’t know. I ‘m starting not to make it each past couple of weeks. I need some kind of jungle vine or rope-bridge  to get me through Monday and Friday. Maybe some bamboo stilts to chopstick walk my way through a shit week over to the weekend, the land of light and hope.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

Monday is a dreaded day for every adult but most especially for adults like me who fucking hate their jobs.

And again, it’s not the job itself that pisses me off. It’s everything else. The bosses, the building, the bullshit.

And then I start thinking about how the fuck is this happening. Why is this happening? No, I mean, beyond personal choices (I did the expected formula: school, study, graduate, job where you are as least of an asshole as possible to your fellow man), zoom back.

WAAAY back.

Now, look at the big picture of our world.

There are billions like me. Just hustling and hustling and hustling. Some people hustle themselves to death. So many people on their deathbeds regret the same damn thing.

“I wish I hadn’t work so hard.”

We all work shit jobs to pay for shit things that we need for our shit life with our shit pay.  And this is bullshit!  Because I know there’s a small elite few who are so fucking rich, they could literally take a dump on thousand dollar bills and flush it down the toilet without feeling the same pinch the rest of us do.

Yes, yes, I know: Take personal responsibility for your own actions.

 But tell me how any of us could go to school or afford a car or hell, just living in this country without getting into debt, and you’ll win a fucking prize. And God help you if you get sick. The system fucked you before but now it will do so without lube.

Somehow we’ve all become indentured servants living paycheck to paycheck just trying to keep our heads above water with our eye peeled on the horizon for her.

HER.  That ship named the American Dream.  Should she ever come sailing past us, we’ve been told she will take us to safety. 

Tell me about this American Dream, (though really, it's sorta everyone's dream. I mean, everyone around the world wants to be happy. Moving to this country and risking getting shot b/c you're a foreigner shouldn't have to be a prerequisite.) 

This impossible and cruel dream that we hold tight to our anxious hearts when we can’t sleep at night. I used to be told stories about her, but maybe she comes from the same place as the Tooth Fairy or Santa Clause.

Yeah, I’m a cynic. I’m what happens when an idealist loses one too many times to bitter truth. You turn into a pickled dreamer.

I know there’s a solution. I know there’s a better way, a better world that could be. It’s possible if a few people could get their heads out of their asses and help the majority struggling. There are people out there who are profiting from all our wasted lives. Big wigs who could give a flying fuck to your dreams and would rather have us work to our last drop of potential to meet their bottom line. Then, ironically, towards the end of their lives, they usually get hit with some altruistic bug and they donate a wing to a hospital or some shit museum to feel a little less guilt about how poorly they treated their workers.  

Ugh. People suck.

So then I think, “Oh this is bollocks and bullshit! Let’s just sell everything and get a tiny house and live in the mountains and wash dishes with our bathwater. Fuck this rat race shit.” I am so over this shit. I am soooo over working for fuckwads and fucktards.  I want this harness off me, goddammit. I’m too goddamn clever and too damn talented to be made to fit into this cog.

As I get older, the temptation gets stronger and stronger.  Just say, “Fuck it,” and go all Walden-Pond-Thoreau on the next phase of my life.

I want so badly to stop sucking on Capitalism’s tit. Her rancid milk fuels me to consume shit I need to survive and other shit I need to forget that I live in her Matrix.  I guess you could say, I shop because I’m sad. That brief hit of dopamine won’t last, I know, and I’m disgusted when I see what I’ve done (Thank God for return policies. I return 80%  of the shit I buy.)

But enough, Lainey. Enough ranting. Fine. This is the way things are. No one is going to come and save you. You have to save yourself.

Think your way out of this. There’s a solution. Everything is figure-outable. I’m not saying bend to their will but you gotta create your exit strategy, woman. You have to work a few more shitty Mondays for now.

Mission Freedom starts now. And it goes live at the end of this year.

That’s a little over 200 days.

Guess I’m going to need 200 bottles of wine as well.