My Steak in the Future, Making Ends......

The early ninties seem a life time away, and yet somehow, 1997 seems like yesterday. I suppose that the styles have changed some. The music has. Maybe when the music on the radio starts to suck, you're too old. As if one were a gator in a fishtank and then released, never to grow bigger.

It takes only a role of the dice for some executive to make the next big thing in music. What if Herman's Hermits became popular first? Would John and Paul have become relegated to nasally harmonizing about Mr. Brown's lovely daughter? Rhetorical questions in writing are nothing more than filler I assure you, but I am rusty so bear with me.....

To the left, to the left....

For awhile I thought making ends meet was making ends meat. Like those packages of baloney ends for sale cheaply at the deli counter in a Market Basket. Now I know its making ends meet. I have never started anything so I don't know how to finish anything, so I can't seem to make ends meet. Ends meat I could do.

When I started writing the Inklinks on the old site, I didn't know what a blog was, so they weren't a blog. This is a blog solely because I am writing it in a "blog adminsitrator", therefore it is banal and my words can flow out like any other mint in the fecal-tainted cosmic communal mint bowl of life.

One should always wash their hands after making water, ends meat too, I suppose. Then you can take a mint, but use the tongs if they are provided.

At the crux of it, I have difficulty writing sober and since I'm not as much in my cups as I used to be, I more often than not find myself staring at a blank screen. When I was always high or drunk, I found myself arc welding words without a mask. Now when I wanna write, I have tricked myself into thinking I have to get fucked up first, and when that happens I do it to get fucked up and not to write. I can still weld, but the light blinds and I give up quickly.

So when they ask me why I don't just write for a newspaper, or freelance I tell them that I don't have enough money for it. I'd have to morgage my soul for a pound of drugs and a river of booze just to take a crack at it, in hopes that I can make some money and keep the cycle going.

The cycle will no doubt kill me. But when I eventually hop on it, I will have no worries about burning out because it will be inevitable. I will have fun while it lasts, maybe even make enough money to be wealthy. Although I will continue to be morally bankrupt, at least I won't have to worry about making ends meat.

I couln't help myself.