Mr. Cellophane

In a location adjacent to a place in a city of some significance, what comes out of my head is plastered on the walls of this blog.

Monday, June 08, 2015

On Saturday, I went to get a haircut. How nice it ended up looking does not excuse the fact that the barber behind it crossed a number of lines. I'd heard that he was something of a user, but I was willing to ignore that; how many artists are clean and sober? What I mean is that it started with him coughing into his hand and shaving me with the hand he coughed in...then he put his fingers from the selfsame hand in my mouth. (And I'm still not sure why he was taking pictures with his phone inbetween cutting.)

On Sunday, I went to church. Not very objectionable, but then came the end of service. Apparently, instead of dismissing the congregation, that was the time for prayer...and I was ready to go. Was there really no time in the middle of service for this?

Today, I went to my job. The first half went pretty smoothly. I even managed to make a sale. I went for some lunch, then I came back. A neverending parade of people asking inscrutable question upon inscrutable question. If I wasn't serious about finding a new job before, I sure as fuck am now.

What do these incidents have in common? Well, does anyone really envision this as a life for themselves when they're growing up? Does anyone really think while they wait for the school bus, 'I want to be orally violated by a closet case junkie, then go to a job that I barely understand and live in constant fear of?'

This is not living. This is barely survival. I'm truly sick of it.

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