The job's rotten, still.
So many days past writing on pages like these.
Hoping for the best,
full of angst towards schooling and lowly positions.
Now school's over, and I left old jobs,
but the lowliness takes new form.

I left so many of yous there,
but don't look at me all forlorn.
I finished my share of the toil toll;
I went to school, I went into debt,
without even buying a home,
and most important of all,
I only climbed a rung.

I wish I could walk into that retail barn with unfake flair.
Show everyone I'm doing something I loved
and always talked about;
museum work, teaching, or traveling.
Even those "choices" are too general.
Getting over 12 bucks an hour's half the battle.
I'm only almost there, again.

please give to me a proper job
otherwise I'm on the rob
me tummy hearts n me eyes are poppin
as around the shop i go hoppin
gonna steal new shoes, leave the old ones behind
security .... I'll blow ya mind
aberdeen angus, 21 day steak
come on tesco's give me a break
gonna nick whiskey, and fine wine
I'll be popular come tea time
gonna get the dress of my dreams
a vivien westwood, with tailored seams
lingerie, make up, and perfume
i'll get some attention .. in my living room

(c) msrigs 07/10/2014

I've been listening to a lot of new music lately
I just let the online radio go while I search for jobs
much more intensively than I had in the past
I used to think I was such hot **** with my MA
An MA degree, a ***** f’ing MA!
But now I know it’s all a crock *** of bull testicles
My generation was so brainwashed into thinking we could be whatever we wanted

The thought of me not accomplishing what I ought to
used to make me lay in bed and slump
but now I’m searching for any better thing so wholeheartedly
I realized a truth in this economy:
if you don’t know anybody
you’re best luck comes from quantity
something will hit
and if it doesn't
I've been listening to a lot of new music lately

Playing much less of my own music
as in hardly enough time to put a guitar or mando in my hand to jam
I’m on these job boards if I’m not sleeping, out with friends,
or working a **** job to be out with friends

Some say be happy you got a job at all
and if you really wanted something different
you wouldn't go out at all
you’d just sit at home looking for a job

That thought terrifies me cause
for those who don’t ever sacrifice their search for potential work
for the intermediary wants in life
they get sick quicker than expected and die

At least they always listened to new music lately

The world around me: Day after day it looks the same.
I hear the noise of the workers drilling in the basement
and watch people doing their business.
Here or anywhere other, it's the same.

Sometimes I think I am trapped. Trapped in former decisions;
decisions which always tend to reveal their full impact later.
I think about the mistakes I made and regret - what futile task
as past always stays past, petrifying words yelled and unspoken.

I'm not ungrateful - given my past suffering.
I'm not moaning - given freedom from my former pain.
I'm not unhappy - given that I was already happier tough.
I'm not doing nothing - given that it may look different to you.

Finally I got rid of this **** anxiety, which haunted me
from my first days at school to my last job,
these devastating thoughts of having to be better than everyone,
of being more, of deserving more
they just ate away at my soul
tearing myself apart
before hyenas did
their part.

Today, I sent out at least another 10 advertisements of myself. It’s not fair. These potential employee seeking companies show me at least a thousand ads boasting about themselves, but I only got the time to send out a fraction of their words, and it’s somehow bad taste to show off my handsomeness. No pictures at all, just boring words, competing against the tacky hordes of plastic signs, overt lies, and labeled every things. I don’t even get any screen time, and if I could even afford it, they’d think I over did it. So I can’t use any ****** tricks to show my fluency in PR devilry? Y’all hypocrites.

I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner

But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck

You must register with an employment agency,
he said through a muffled yawn, to defer
your studnet loan payments for the next six months.

But don't worry, he continued, clearing his
throat and sipping what I presumed was stale coffee,
you don't have to accept any jobs that you're offered.

A sad confession, but I still think of suicides,
which is a pointless task for even a nihilist.
A chore, really.
Yet here I am awake, without purpose,
like limp lettuce in a banquet; useless.
No career, few desires. Old /young.
Whose to say? I worry. I wish I
was immune to the trepidations of
a life without merit to society,
yet I worry. Don't even know who
I'm disappointing even any more.
Louis Keys said pondering suicide was like
a strip joint; ideas, theories,
actions you want to go through,
but ultimately you get to enjoy
nothing.
Just the idea.
If it's the thought that counts,
I couldn't live with the *******
who'd exploit my death like my life,
or the people who actually cared
having to go through the pain of
wondering why. So this is a
sorry *** confession, and a plea.
Please, ****** me.
For everything I'll never be.
****** me.
For all the **** I've done to others.
****** me.
For my penchant for spreading misery.
****** me.
For my bad skin on my nose, under my eyes.
****** me.
For the **** I'll never get sick of repeating.
****** me.
For the sake letting some people die with dignity,
or in the self interest of respect for the dead
as long as the information is present for
a ******* second in this vacuum.
****** me.
Don't the words just rush out of you too?