Suddenly, I've become the "trust fund kid" I've always looked down upon with sheer resentment and jealousy. However, it's temporary, so I'm definitely relishing.
Last Saturday, my mother moved from Detroit to Jersey in a manic frenzy. I seriously came to her place last Friday and saw this!
That's my mother. She's a psychologist, which explains her manic moving and my manic mind.
Here's another of her being a fucking lamp.
So, on Sunday you drove a 20 foot long Penske truck from Detroit to Princeton, becoming more than an hour away for the first time in my life. I'm going to miss the ol' hussy and her psycho-analyzing.
Unbeknownst to me, I made out like a bandit from this entire move. Until September 1st, I'm squatting in her vacant apartment because she decided not to pay month to month last signing. The apartment is 2 grand a month and overlooks the more "hoity toity" section of Detroit. I'm paying her a very small fee to reside in this place, because I don't want to be "that son," which causes a more strenuous work schedule. Yes...believe it or not, I'm working 35 hours a week!
fucking wow.
However, in all actuality, one of my jobs offers the ability to steal clothing and get clothing cleaned for free. The dry cleaners!
This particular job allows me sleeping arrangements, simply for the fact I work by myself. I fall asleep in the chair behind the counter, routinely falling out of said chair each time the "the door has just opened bringing new customers, shit head" rings. On occasion I'll find money in peoples pockets which I selfishly fold in the cusps of my palms and quickly walk towards the back to count. I listen to my own music and could probably become a drug addict if I truly desired so. Once in a while, I bring some booze with me just to kill the monotonous pinning and bagging of dirty clothes, while listening to horrible metal in order to sway customers away from the establishment.
My other job which is contributing most of the money towards this grandiose lifestyle I've recently procured consists of cooking for some restaurant.
The perks of this job are quite obvious...free food, free booze, an easy escape route to steal food from the walk-in cooler (allowing less grocery shopping and the ability to grow fat with this age I've recently adjusted to), and an outlet for my subconscious aggression (namely, towards all servers and managers. You become the "angry chef" in these situations. It's natural.). The plethora of chicken wings and crown royal make a two-credits-shy-of-graduating-college young man content.
However, lately my entire apathetic nature has been put to the test with the basketball playoffs. With all the white guys crowded around one another screaming at the television, cooking is no longer enjoyable or relaxing. With the heavy rotation of pizzas, shrimp, salads, asiago chickens, and eggplant parms, I no longer take the time to make these dishes look desirable. Instead, I throw the shit onto a plate and let the animals fend for themselves. Thus, I'm learning to hate it.
But, whatever. A part of me romanticizes over these times of struggle and shitty jobs. I know I'll one day look back at these times and realize how truly fun it was to be lazy, apathetic, and poor.
The sad thing is that the moment I get a "real" job, I'll probably be making the same amount of money, at least considering all the free perks I'm scandalously placing into my pockets at this time.
Here's to me becoming a distorted image of everything I grew up scared about.
Last Saturday, my mother moved from Detroit to Jersey in a manic frenzy. I seriously came to her place last Friday and saw this!
That's my mother. She's a psychologist, which explains her manic moving and my manic mind.
Here's another of her being a fucking lamp.
So, on Sunday you drove a 20 foot long Penske truck from Detroit to Princeton, becoming more than an hour away for the first time in my life. I'm going to miss the ol' hussy and her psycho-analyzing.
Unbeknownst to me, I made out like a bandit from this entire move. Until September 1st, I'm squatting in her vacant apartment because she decided not to pay month to month last signing. The apartment is 2 grand a month and overlooks the more "hoity toity" section of Detroit. I'm paying her a very small fee to reside in this place, because I don't want to be "that son," which causes a more strenuous work schedule. Yes...believe it or not, I'm working 35 hours a week!
fucking wow.
However, in all actuality, one of my jobs offers the ability to steal clothing and get clothing cleaned for free. The dry cleaners!
This particular job allows me sleeping arrangements, simply for the fact I work by myself. I fall asleep in the chair behind the counter, routinely falling out of said chair each time the "the door has just opened bringing new customers, shit head" rings. On occasion I'll find money in peoples pockets which I selfishly fold in the cusps of my palms and quickly walk towards the back to count. I listen to my own music and could probably become a drug addict if I truly desired so. Once in a while, I bring some booze with me just to kill the monotonous pinning and bagging of dirty clothes, while listening to horrible metal in order to sway customers away from the establishment.
My other job which is contributing most of the money towards this grandiose lifestyle I've recently procured consists of cooking for some restaurant.
The perks of this job are quite obvious...free food, free booze, an easy escape route to steal food from the walk-in cooler (allowing less grocery shopping and the ability to grow fat with this age I've recently adjusted to), and an outlet for my subconscious aggression (namely, towards all servers and managers. You become the "angry chef" in these situations. It's natural.). The plethora of chicken wings and crown royal make a two-credits-shy-of-graduating-college young man content.
However, lately my entire apathetic nature has been put to the test with the basketball playoffs. With all the white guys crowded around one another screaming at the television, cooking is no longer enjoyable or relaxing. With the heavy rotation of pizzas, shrimp, salads, asiago chickens, and eggplant parms, I no longer take the time to make these dishes look desirable. Instead, I throw the shit onto a plate and let the animals fend for themselves. Thus, I'm learning to hate it.
But, whatever. A part of me romanticizes over these times of struggle and shitty jobs. I know I'll one day look back at these times and realize how truly fun it was to be lazy, apathetic, and poor.
The sad thing is that the moment I get a "real" job, I'll probably be making the same amount of money, at least considering all the free perks I'm scandalously placing into my pockets at this time.
Here's to me becoming a distorted image of everything I grew up scared about.
VIEW 18 of 18 COMMENTS
yes its fair to say that i am Narcissistic but its also obvious that about 80% of the people on this site are as well, we are all attention whores! even you! we all want to to be noticed, loved wanted, accepted. and yes i love parts of myself, including the visual parts of myself. being Narcissistic is very theraputic at times. fuck if i don't love me who will!
fuck there is no point denying it, but for him to have some bone to pick with me becuse he has unfinished biz with someone else is not my fucking problem, get the balls to face them already, and take care of biz with them not me. fuck it EAT ME is what i should have wrote.