At least I don't have to throw my TV against the wall today after arguing with my beloved Katie. Quit flirting with all those interesting guests you're wasting time with. It drives me nuts, I mean, she could have Bin Laden on and she'd ask him about his dreamy eyes and did he know that he was actually considered a sex symbol by bored loser housewives. Tease! No more of that, not today, anyway, no stress for me. No TV psychics either, it's going to be a long day. But it's early and the news is coming soon... too soon... so I'm not promising anything other than my pledge to take another slug a' brandy while I leer at half naked air brushed fantasies...
Anyway, when you live on the hustle you get rundown and need a release. And if you're in the global economy and you're here reading online, you're a hustler no matter how temporal life may be and no matter what gig you might have right now, so don't get all righteous. No matter what you do, if you're in the game, you're a hustler, and you're in the game just by trying to make an honest clean buck, because none of them are honest or clean anymore. There's no such thing as honest money anywhere. I'll take it, or someone like me will. Sooner or later you come to understand how it feels when you're too tired to catch up to your own hangover and still some government's tax infected high looms on the annual colostomy April 30th horizon. I know you get to be rundown and beat and useless and tired just like me and there are still so many things to build and so many sales to make and so much capital to steal. And then it accidentally gets good, you see, you hit a golden run, things pan out and soon you're lost in the circle, contributing to it.
You actually buy the merchandise, so as not to stick out like a sore subversive thumb. But the bill gets hefty and you feel weak from wrestling with it and the weight of the universe is heavy and presses upon you.
Just as you can take no more and you're actually noosing the rope which is tearing calluses into the flesh on the soft part of the web between the thumb and forefinger, Big Trouble in Little China comes on the tube... on some obscure mid 60's numbered cable channel. You assume the fetal position on the old couch with the noose at your feet ready and waiting for you just in case this is a mistake and Kurt Russell is but an oasis in the desert, a sick mirage talking you down off of the ledge that we will all use sooner or later.
You see, here I am again, all these choices to make, and no TV psychics to help me.