C. A. Winter Blog

 I was looking for a job and then I found a job. And heaven knows, I'm miserable now

  Panic I take another tablet from the bottle and mush it under my tongue before I have time to second guess myself. Was this one, this second or third, was this a choice? To take a fourth pill between my gums and oral frenulum is as much a choice as the fifth or second, but, at what point is the choice an illusion? Was the first pill the only choice? The prescribed amount, the recommended dose, the singular round blue chalklette. Once, daily. Until once daily isn’t once, daily, but rather once, more than daily. The choice was mine, man, I could stop at like, any time, you know? But, I don’t want, or the bottle says, like, once daily as per doctor’s orders. Prescription, state-sanctioned high before the choice of relapse is given and the door is propped ever so slightly open. Thin yellow crack of light leading to the rickety old steps of the basement. Down the steps we go, each floorboard creaks. Thump, thump. Remember how it was back then? What brought you here in the first place?...

 If they find your art offensive, good. If you aim to offend, bad.  If you aim to evoke, good. If they are offended, they probably don't understand.  Or they have their own life behind their eyes. And that life sucks enough that a piece of art can ruin their day.

 I find it incredibly hard to justify working for eight hours out of my day just to come home, shower, eat, relax, and do it again when all I really want to do is write. I am furious that I have to work and there is no part of me that wants a career in anything BUT writing. I do not want to sell cars. I do not want to peddle insurance. I do not want to work in a factory or on an assembly line or behind an espresso machine. I want to sit at my computer and make shit up. Cool shit, dope shit, incredible shit, for hours on end.  And you know what? I still can, but I'm so mad at the idea that I have to spend a third of my life at some fuck factory waiting for the weekend. There is no point to this existence of mine other than to write. Hell is real, I have been there, it is in my office facing the Local Drugstore. It is in an office, in every office across the Americas, next to you, inside you, near you. Always creeping up faster and faster until it swallows you whole. Right now i...