It’s not as if anyone has never seen a mess like this before. I remember the sordid days at the private school I went to, all of the arbitrary screaming, crying, and shit throwing. I suppose that I am now to believe that being out, being there in that place they all pressured me to be in that I’m to behave one hundred percent of the time. If you really consider the nature of where we all end up it isn’t on our own volition, it’s simply dictated by the firm and unrelenting hand of our parents’ parents’ parents. Anyway, am I truly to be held fully responsible for this mess I created? We’re all entitled to a moment’s slip up every once and a while, I pay the mortgage and it stills seems that I’m to always be on my best behavior. I remember when we used to use my fathers Nautilus equipment to smash the salamanders, stolen from beneath the rock they shouldn’t have chosen that day. It was fun, but why then and not now?
Despite the world I would like to live in, I am held accountable. I didn’t even have to clean up. Good thing too, what I wouldn’t give to take a big, triumphant shit to show off to the room. Fucking business events.
I should skip town, just to prove how capable I am of becoming the little bastard I used to be. So what, I have enough money. I’ll even tell my lawyer so he can pass it on to them, I don’t need to get out of anything. I could only hope that they’d all be tilting their heads, they wouldn’t know who they were dealing with. In one crack of one knuckle I could have them all convinced I was Lex Luthor.
I mean no harm of course, I suppose I do have a lot on the line. It’s no one else’s fault that I would love to scan every house and decorate my walls with domesticated cat pelts. Come to think of it, that sounds like a fantastic idea. Decorate my lounge with cat pelts and smoke the rest into the newest cat jerky. PETA performs euthanasia on hundreds of thousands of animals a year and still get to bitch out the art community. Why not cat jerky? Are cats vital? Are cats important? Do we worship cats? Here’s another question. Do we eat cats? I fucking hate cats.
Even if I don’t get fired I think I’m going to quit my job. No one is going to want to see me around the workspace anyhow. Every time I think about sitting in that one area I remember the boiling restlessness in my feet, my toes trying to burrow out of my shoes. Those constricting leather shoes. What’s their aim, i figure I could make a pretty good case against the mental strain caused by that attire and the gradually forming tumor on my brain stem.
Oh well, I know for a fact that there’s no harm meant. I suppose if I wanted the derelict lifestyle I could have stopped trying long ago. Yet again, I must bring up these standards that are finely engraved in my memory. A resonating set of customs respected by mine own ancestors, which stuck on the foreheads of every screaming, human pup. I guess I’d better bear up and stifle the fumes of this impending mid life crisis or whatever the fuck it is. We’ll all be doomed in the end, so have a fucking barbecue.