No job. Again. No job. At home. Lounge, bathroom, lounge, bed, lounge, yard,
lounge, toilet, lounge, nothing to do. Plenty to do. Mess everywhere, shit
scattered from arsehole to breakfast but no point to fixing it. Always
tomorrow, nothing to do then either, so I should save this for then, otherwise
I’ll have nothing to do then. All I’ll be able to do is wander around the house
aimlessly…lounge, bathroom, lounge, bed, lounge, yard…who needs that?
Records that have sat on my shelves for years are being played
on repeat, things I picked up when high and browsing op shops are making me
feel more out of time, I’m living in the late 60’s and listening to a lot of
country heartache. Country heartache is
a funny thing, I once fell in love with a Johnny Paycheck album and got so
depressed I wanted to leave my girlfriend. Great record.
The bits of rubbish are laughing at me. All you have to do
is bend down, you can do it. You could pick us up but you won’t you lazy fuck.
Lazy? I resent that! I worked my arse of in the face of constant indifference
to watch my skill set be honed to a single, disposable use time and time again.
I don’t have calloused hands, but the contrarian spite I’m full of and the
general apathy ingrained in my existence are callouses of the soul. I’ve worked
and it got me all the glory of my kingdom of mocking rubbish. I should really clean this place up, but god
damn I’m lazy.
