Colourful Anorexic Models and Imagined Idealisms of Classiness

The infuriating tediousness of minimum wage jobs has, over the course of 12 and a half months, driven me to a pathetically helpless lunacy. My only sane reaction to the constant drudgery of waltzing the constant brink of poverty is to flee my tottering predicament for either extreme before the narrow daily focus of surviving accruing stress overwhelms me completely and leaves me a sloppy, broken mess. So many Americans--let's say 98% for the sake of prudence and swiftness--are on the brink of embarrassing financial extinction. There are those who own (massively! beyond their needs or even wants) and those who owe. Fuck if I want a 15,000$ car! I'll be behind for years, and pay over twice as much for the damn thing. And before you know it--a house! Mortgage, you know. And then it's the long wait, the dull grind of hours spent doing something you may, at best, give two or three damns for in order to pay off things that provide the illusion of societal flotation--maybe sometimes security as well, I suppose, but a tainted and double-edged security.

The old ladies, heeled up, towing perfumed accessory poodles and terrified chihuahuas, skulking the sunshine streets in shades and hats, humping the poor clothing salespeople into a constant depressive vengefulness, scared out of their wits at the prospect that what they've chased after and admired for so damn long they're slowly losing, desperate for any measure of meaning but too stoned on anti-depressives and estrogen replacement pills to pay attention for long enough to actually search beyond the colourful anorexic models and imagined idealisms of classiness.

The whole damn charade makes no sense to me! I understand why people go along with it, sure, but the basis is mind-bogglingly empty. How many times does it take till people learn one goddamn lesson? Gorging on flashy, succulent, temporary trifles like blind swine does not bring fucking happiness! (That is what people want, right?) The lesson is learned too late, it seems, and by the time one realises it (if one is so lucky), one is too old, too weary, too fucked-over to do anything about it but bitch and of course none of those young and enthusiastic for and confident of some grand Meaning of Life listen to an old bitcher admitting that said bitcher knows nothing.

As perhaps in every job, I see people at their weakest. The hesitant splurgers; the three-day-a-week regulars; the three-wardrobes-full collectors of anything remotely new (as if that concept is anything but stupidly Verne-term); the only-buy-sales-shit no matter how garish, unflattering, poorly-sized; the plastic-cyborgs who can no longer even cock a superior eyebrow, frown to desired contemptuousness--can barely even upturn a hair-plucked nose. But those are few, really, the ones that stick in one's memory, popping up with sporadicly in the times of weary hatred. Most people are polite and insecure beasts trying to make it through the day, looking vaguely at a vacation next year or a holiday approaching, trying to make a decision they think other people will approve of. Perhaps they are who upset me. The monsters of the world are a breed so lavishly misplaced they are tucked to a corner of the mind for the ridiculous, sectioned off like a zoo, seen as separate and strange creatures. But the ordinary folks: gay nurses in blue scrubs, overweight mothers trying to please a lazy daughter, part-time yogi-hikers, the desperate bored--they are the ones who scare me to aforementioned lunacy. For in their timid eyes I find a reflection of a possible future spiraling into depravity.

I ask myself: is this all there is? And every time I ask myself this, I believe it a little bit more, until I've worked myself into a caffeine-manic funk, jittery at the prospect of four dreadful hours "on the floor" saying pointless hellos, repeating the mantra "anti-microbial", "the placement of this seam makes your butt look good", "it's okay, everybody goes up in size in this pant", and so forth until all you're doing is acknowledging other people's existence, which is a meaningless way to live a life, in my humble opinion.

Am I odd, weary or just bored of the melodrama of the American Dream? America was a Dream, once upon a time, before the Puritans started taking shits in porcelain and destroying anything that reminded them of their own sinfully beautiful souls.