Wednesday, August 13, 2014

On Hump Day, Bukowski Speaks of Death

Ten and one-half hours standing up and shoving baskets into the bellies of college students by way of crowd control (when I run out of baskets, I block the door until someone walks out) takes its toll. It’s amazing how time has slowed down. I’ve got Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to go, and I wish I could feel excited about only having three more of these shifts to do. No, I have three more shifts to do. I’d rather it be none. My best hope is to get through this with nothing major breaking. Like a lot of people, I’m one minor catastrophe away from the street.

Meanwhile, I’m supposed to feel bad for a multi-millionaire comedian, beloved the world over, who killed himself. Richard Cory strikes again.

Oh, what a rant I could get from this. I’ve got to go to work, though. Charles Bukowski Week continues:

Naturally, the above quote does not describe Robin Williams. He seemed a thoughtful enough guy. But good on him for being able to afford checking out. I’ve still got a son in high school and a wife who depends on me to keep my act together. I’m glad I’ve got people, don’t get me wrong. But never, ever ask me to feel sorry for someone who would laugh at how “little” money I owe relative to what he would make for one episode of a bad TV comedy series. 

It’s a quarter ‘til already. I gotta go.