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I want a trust fund

18 Mar

When I grow up, I want to be blessed with a chip on my shoulder, imbued with a sense of entitlement I’ve never questioned or lived without. I want a trust fund so I can look down my nose at people who desire money. I want to show my scorn for a poor man’s desire by wearing thrift-store clothing ironically. I’ll call myself a socialist, a populist. All my friends will be just like me. I want to assume that I am more intelligent than Steve the janitor by virtue of the sort of work I do, nevermind that his mind, unlike mine, is free to think truly original thoughts while he does his work; whereas my mind is occupied trying to figure out new ways to sell the same old shit, office politics, and the bottom line. I’ll invent dumpster-diving, train-hopping, international travel, and be the first person in history to discover poetry and nature. I’ll buy cases of expensive wine, refuse to cross rivers and train tracks, never leave my neighborhood, call myself a philanthropist, consider graduate school, complain about how hard it is to find good help these days.

I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller

23 Feb

(imported from MySpace blog)

I miss being cool. I used to be cool, but I must’ve ceased being cool sometime when I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe I never was cool and I was living some kind of horrible delusional life, wherein I created all kinds of characters with which to surround myself.

Perhaps I stopped being cool when I began asserting myself as a legitimate, intelligent being worthy of respect. Maybe it’s because I started the dark-rimmed glasses trend, and all those emo kids hate me for it, so I’ve been ousted from the cool people club. Maybe it’s because I don’t smoke of the ganja… and my head, minus the clouding, is just not as interesting as it used to be.

Perhaps I should embark on an Austin Powers-esque journey to get my mojo back, including a trip back to the swingin’ 60s. I hear mod is back anyway, although my ability to tease my hair is somewhat lacking. I think I could learn, though. Oh, the elusive cool, which we begin lusting after in middle school, and although we grow up, never really stop searching for.

Perhaps my lack of cool can be attributed to my lack of a solid clique. This may be in part to the fact that many of my pals are geographically scattered, and my work-centered schedule tends to conflict with the party-centered schedule of my still A-town bound friends.

Sigh… I must learn to accept my dorkdom. I shall reign over it with an iron fist. Made of bronze.




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