Post by Deleted on Oct 18, 2015 8:41:34 GMT
What does a guy with a fetish for dragons, a tecnico, a spaceman from the future, a narcissist, an alien and a fucking madman in a mask all have in common?
The Chicken Scramble.
Not much of a punchline, but it looks like a bad joke all the same if you were standing in my raggedy-ass shoes; peering at the spectacle from behind my funky mask.
Maybe this was the depth that I’ve always feared that I’d sink to in order to pick up a paycheck; that pitiful, inevitable last stop before I’d have to hang up my boots for good and get a job as a Wal-Mart greeter or some garbage collection gig in some middle-class, suburbian hell-hole.
Or I could be the unlikely sap who’ll go the distance and win it all against the rest of my oddball, screwjob peers who’ve been drafted into this cluster-cluck-fuck.
I could spend hours, nights, weeks questioning the choices I’ve made over and over again, and I wouldn’t get any closer to finding that cathartic moment or grand epiphany that’s been eluding me for all of my adult life.
There’s enough of those kind of folks at your local dive, weeping salty tears of regret and anguish into glasses of lukewarm beers. Any bartender could tell you a thousand of those stories in the time it takes to spit-wipe another glass or tumbler.
Or I could choose to man-the-fuck-up and do that dastardly job that’s in front of me.
Once you’ve reached a certain age in life, or you come to that particular crossroads in your career; you tend to get an idea of what you’re capable of and what your limitations are as a person and a professional.
Those lofty, magnificent dreams usually get shelved or scrapped, in favor of the overwhelming need to start finding your niche in life; whatever that could be. There are no right or wrong answers; and it’s not exactly a trick question either.
You just kind of give it the best fucking shot and work your heart out until your audience, or at the very least, somebody who matters; starts paying attention.
As far as my own predicament goes; it’s pretty hard to stand out in the midst of six people beating the ever-living shit out of each other in the space of 10 minutes for bragging rights and a fancy strap to wear around their waist.
But that’s exactly the kind of fucked-up test that life throws at you every so often: to see if you’ve really got what it takes to turn that fucking corner.
Of course, all of this could just be some random coincidence of the great lottery of life: that we’re all in Pollomania, thrown into this Chicken Scramble purely by chance. It could very well be that I’ve been talking straight out of my chiseled crack, searching desperately for meaning and higher thought in a place where there is absolutely none to be found?
Fuck it, let’s do this.
The Chicken Scramble.
Not much of a punchline, but it looks like a bad joke all the same if you were standing in my raggedy-ass shoes; peering at the spectacle from behind my funky mask.
Maybe this was the depth that I’ve always feared that I’d sink to in order to pick up a paycheck; that pitiful, inevitable last stop before I’d have to hang up my boots for good and get a job as a Wal-Mart greeter or some garbage collection gig in some middle-class, suburbian hell-hole.
Or I could be the unlikely sap who’ll go the distance and win it all against the rest of my oddball, screwjob peers who’ve been drafted into this cluster-cluck-fuck.
I could spend hours, nights, weeks questioning the choices I’ve made over and over again, and I wouldn’t get any closer to finding that cathartic moment or grand epiphany that’s been eluding me for all of my adult life.
There’s enough of those kind of folks at your local dive, weeping salty tears of regret and anguish into glasses of lukewarm beers. Any bartender could tell you a thousand of those stories in the time it takes to spit-wipe another glass or tumbler.
Or I could choose to man-the-fuck-up and do that dastardly job that’s in front of me.
Once you’ve reached a certain age in life, or you come to that particular crossroads in your career; you tend to get an idea of what you’re capable of and what your limitations are as a person and a professional.
Those lofty, magnificent dreams usually get shelved or scrapped, in favor of the overwhelming need to start finding your niche in life; whatever that could be. There are no right or wrong answers; and it’s not exactly a trick question either.
You just kind of give it the best fucking shot and work your heart out until your audience, or at the very least, somebody who matters; starts paying attention.
As far as my own predicament goes; it’s pretty hard to stand out in the midst of six people beating the ever-living shit out of each other in the space of 10 minutes for bragging rights and a fancy strap to wear around their waist.
But that’s exactly the kind of fucked-up test that life throws at you every so often: to see if you’ve really got what it takes to turn that fucking corner.
Of course, all of this could just be some random coincidence of the great lottery of life: that we’re all in Pollomania, thrown into this Chicken Scramble purely by chance. It could very well be that I’ve been talking straight out of my chiseled crack, searching desperately for meaning and higher thought in a place where there is absolutely none to be found?
Fuck it, let’s do this.