Living the dream.
To be fair, I haven't been trying very hard to find work. I spend about an hour a day searching the internet, applying for jobs, being rejected. Not even being rejected; out of all the jobs I have applied to only one of them has ever replied to tell me that I have been unsuccessful. Thanks a bunch, dickheads.
The rest of my time is spent meandering around the flat. Thinking about all the things that I should be doing. Making mental lists of all of the things that I will accomplish tomorrow. Always tomorrow. I should probably get out of the flat more. I fear that that will end in me spending money. Money that I don't have. I am damn sure looking forward to some 'disposable income' when I finally get a job. If 'disposable income' even exists any more. Fuck you, recession.
I should write more. There are two scripts that I am working on at the moment. Or thinking about working on. I can't decide which one to proceed with first. The horror or the thriller? Two genres that I am unfamiliar with, in writing terms at least. Both scripts will take me to a dark place. Why can't I write about something happy and light? Why do I always have to be dark and brooding? I feel far too lethargic to get into that debate with myself right now.
At least I have been reading. I just finished Bukowski's Women. His third novel. My least favourite. In my opinion it should have been about half the length. He wouldn't have given two shits about what I thought. And rightly so. What the hell do I know?!?
This is my favourite quote from the book;
"Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yoghurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.
I took my choice. I raised the fifth of vodka and drank it straight. The Russains knew something."
I love the way he can tear down all of humanity, including himself, in a single paragraph. Bukowski knew something. He makes me laugh like no other writer ever has. He said he only became a writer so that he could stay in bed until noon...
Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. My hero.