It Wasn’t Intentional Rebellion

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i wasn’t intentionally rebelling. it was more like accidentally living. i think what i decided against was whatever it was that didn’t quite make sense to me. i couldn’t quite grasp the concept of spending nine hours of my day making the dreams of others come true so i could make my dreams come true later.

the money i promised to pay back won’t get paid back because the jobs they promised didn’t come thru. i wrote them a letter telling them to repossess the degrees or leave me the fxck alone.

i’m just doing what makes sense to me. if i give my dreams, aspirations, fantasies, lovers, muses, happiness as much of me as most people i know give their employers, i will be happier whenever i fall asleep (as infrequent as that’s becoming). some of those people are happy though. i make no sense to those people. they have bills because they have new cars and houses, and can’t understand why i don’t want those. they want to do what i do, but they have bills, and new bills keep coming.

when they’re 65 and dying, they’ll be glad to spent a third of their life working, and that doesn’t include the time they spent getting ready for work, and in traffic on the way to and from work.

i just haven’t figured out a way to make sense of it all, i guess. and here i am, staying in a $549.00 per night room in manhattan, looking at the hudson hoping i don’t see a body float by, trying to figure out why i can’t find a city i love enough to stay in longer than three months. why do i want to see the world, and eat the world, and conceptualize more than i already do. maybe there are people living in those deserts between LA and NYC.

just writing hoping something reveals itself. ah well. back to this script. on deadline.

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6 thoughts on “It Wasn’t Intentional Rebellion

  1. A part of me envies the freedom you have. The creative spirit in me would love to do what you’re doing but my mortgage and my love for new clothes are holding my practical side hostage and forcing her to work a 9 to 5.

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