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I have a terrible work ethic. Actually, that’s not true. I have a great work ethic when I care about what I’m doing. That makes me a pretty bad employee. I have many boss stories…
Most people I know don’t give a fuck what they’re doing at work. They’ll do anything to make a lot of money. Happiness doesn’t enter the equation. No one seems to mention what they’re passionate about. All I ever hear about is the position they’re seeking, how much more money they’re going to make.
The idea of finding something they’re passionate about and turning it into a career, that doesn’t even occur to most people I talk to. They sometimes scoff at the thought when I mention it.
Pfft. Passion. Happiness. That’s peacenik nonsense. It scares me, sort of.
It’s more heartbreaking, really. People seem more concerned with making a lot of money than they are with being happy. They don’t care if they’re happy with what they are doing with their lives. They really don’t care. I’ve asked them.
The money they make will be their happiness. Happiness will be all the stuff we accumulate. When I finally acquire all the things the TV says that I’m lacking, I will be happy, finally. I have to be. That’s what they taught me. That’s what they promised! I get to be happy!! It’s only fair!!!
I have to simplify my life. A revolution is coming.
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You know what I hate about working? Bosses. That’s what I fucking hate. First of all, let me tell you something real quick. The very idea that anyone could be my boss, well…I think you see the conflict. Not in this lifetime… A few more incarnations, we’ll sit down and chat.
The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. –Ham on Rye, 1982
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
America, I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
I believe there’s an agenda in the mainstream media to keep people stupid, docile, and apathetic.
Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and the ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and the inert slag they breed a song that contaminates.
I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals. –from Tropic of Cancer
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