On my way back from the coffee machine with my large black and sugar.  You see you need the sugar in the coffee, not only does it help with the waking up, but it kills the shitty taste of this dime store, I’d rather eat fried dirt, coffee.  So I head into the mail room and I look in my slot and find two catalogs.  Both of them are Christmas card catalogs.  What the hell?  I’ve never signed up for this crap yet I’m the one that gets it.  I figure that someone is playing a joke on me and turn them over to look at the name.  Sure enough, the bastards are addressed to me.  What’s worse, they say “Ms.” … shit.

 

So I take this crap back to my desk.  Not that I want to enjoy the lovely Christmas season and thus pass on this insanity to my relatives by buying over priced cards for them to view at their wondrous pleasure.  No.  I hate Christ-Mass, think it’s a joke, like most real people do.  But that aside, I’m suppose to be the artist and all that crap, so I think, well more don’t think, that I’ll just look at them and see what the hell is passing for art, you know, more like a joke, something to laugh at. 

 

I get these things back to my desk and start looking through them and something occurs to me.  Some dark thought bubbles up from the deep and lands right there in the bile bleak reality of my life:

 

Art doesn’t pay.

I mean face it, you spend your life learning how to use color, draw straight lines, and grasp the need for negative space, but what does it get you in the world?  You either end up on the street drinking ripple or port, hoping that you find a pair of socks before the weather turns, or you end up working for fucking Hallmark.  Which is worse?  Both are devil seeds.  Can you imagine the creativity of those sub humans that write the drivel in greeting cards?  I don’t want to see their shiny, empty faces, glowing with insanity.  I’d bet money that none of those bastards knows the ugly truth of 3 days of drinking with coke to keep you from falling asleep, because sleep would get you stripped naked, shaved, and raped…with pictures. This is not to assume that some how drinking makes you an artist, but let's face the facts, there are stereo types for a reason.  I’d bet none of those super bleach all teeth inkers have permanent India ink stains under their toe nails…completely unaware of how they got there.  I can only imagine the hallways of this Disney like existence, coated in leafing beauty, with signs that say things like, “Smile, you are loved” or “Sunshine, works on rainy days, too!”  Argh!  While secretly in their cubicles they hide Hentai folded in the ruffles of their copy material, and masturbate in their cars…smiling all the time.  That bottle of ripple starting to sound good?

 

Art doesn’t pay.