|I just realized . . .
||[Mar. 9th, 2016|09:27 pm]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
. . . I've been on vacation for the last thirty-odd years. No wonder I never got a vacation; I was always already there. I worked my ass off as a kid mowing lawns and landscaping to make money to buy rock 'n' roll accoutremá and then in my twenties I was a "tech" but I was essentially working construction: hauling 70 lb. amplifiers up multiple flights of stairs, pulling bell wire through kinked conduit to a box thirty feet off the floor on a gynasium wall. I went home filthy and exhausted evry day, but it was honest work. The years as a sound man at various state fairs and drag strips were almost as physically demanding and involved long, long hours.
After I went to school and got a job with a multinational engineering firm, though, I had plenty of money to do the limited shit I wanted to do. Mostly I went to two to five movies a week and ate out every day at places I liked to eat. I went to some concerts. I had some girlfriends, mostly women who considered themselves tragic figures, legitimately or otherwise. I sought enlightenment, which was fun but fruitless. All in all, however, never being married or having kids, I could just do what I felt like doing next. I was essentially on vacation. Work was cool sometimes, mostly not, but it always paid enough to keep the Endless Autumn of my life mostly debt and worry free. I worried some, but looking back, the worry was for naught; I never really had any problem finding work if I really wanted to, work that would pay well enough to, after a few months, fuel two more years of being an irresponsible asshole.
So, anyway . . . that was and continues to be the dill. Will I have to get a job again? If I do, minimum wage part time at Starbucks would probably be sufficient until I could arrange that final big vacation in the sky. My "worry about it" days are over. Hell they've always been over; I just didn't realize it till just now.