Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Work

Work

I wonder about life itself. What’s the point? Why do we wake up so early to make other people money? Sure, we pocket a little to keep the car from being repossessed, but very little beyond that. While the higher ups drive Beamers and wear flashy suits, the lowly people, including myself, are reduced to shopping at Wal-Mart and driving second piece trash running on bald tires and borrowed time. There must be an end to the insanity. I will find it someday, the day when my blood spills on the bathroom floor.

There is another option. I could start my own business; make my own money. Better yet, have other lowly people make me money. After long consideration, I conclude I don’t have the conscience to bust others balls to make me rich. Plus, I don’t have the cash to start one. Those damned higher ups have it all.

I could always play the lottery. Now that would be nice. I could win millions, retire to some beach and drink margaritas until my hair turns gray. But the odds are astronomical. I would have to be one lucky bitch to win. The way my luck runs, I would spend more than I could ever win. Still, I have to try. What’s a couple of dollars a day? $624. That’s enough for a used refrigerator when mine finally goes to that appliance store in the sky. I can’t win.

Many people have made a killing off of stocks, but not me. The last investment I made ended up in disaster. The company fell under federal investigation two weeks after I bought 10 shares at $50. The stock is now worth 87 cents. Once again, I make money for someone else – the stockbroker.

That Godfather flick was a good movie. I could become a female Don of sorts and dabble in the gangster underworld. Now that would be cool and profitable…for the mortician. I don’t know one thing about shooting a gun. I’m not crafty enough to elude any retaliatory hit coming my way. Them gansters would kill me in an instant.

Wait just a minute! I have the solution to my problem. I know something that generates tons of revenue and would make me powerful. People would adore me, no matter how ugly I became. Flocks of people would gather just at the mere mention of my name. It’d take little talent and very little overhead. All I need is a stage and a couple of timed “miracles”. The money will start pouring in. And it won’t be like I’m forcing sweatshop labor to generate my paycheck. The beauty of this job, people will give me money just for the hell of it, or just to keep Hell out of it. I will become the most famous miracle evangelist to ever walk this earth.

Move over Hinn and Jones, there’s another prophet in town. This place ain’t big enough for all of us.

I hear bells. Are those heaven’s bells? No. Just the sound letting us peons know we have permission to go home to our meaningless lives. Can’t wait until it all starts again tomorrow. Yippee.

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