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?