Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult.
Quitter,
Tuesday, August 4, 1998: Production Day 12
Another long, boring, insulting, trying, awkward, hot, cramped, threatening, difficult, tedious, painful, stupid, stupid day. Hasn't the good government in this country some laws regarding inhumane treatment of workers, etc? What happened to the blue collar man, man? 'Cause I'm getting no love in the ol' U S of A, and I'm starting to yearn for a relaxing trip to Indonesia to sew some Nikes at gunpoint and finally reach for the good life. Maybe I'll enlist in a Chinese firecracker factory/sweatshop for safer and less stressful employment, or maybe I will hire myself out as a midnight crocodile feeder on the infected shores of the Ganges river. I could always cut out my own eyeballs if it's not dangerous enough! Wait, I've got a wonderful idea, dovey: why don't I heat a metal-file over some coals for a few hours, then shove it straight up my ass as I chop my dick in half, rip up a one dollar bill and throw it in the air, fluttering down upon me as payment. There's some job improvement for you! That's gainful employment compared to the maddening gerbil-wheel I find myself churning away in all day. Honestly, the entire BJM production would come tumbling to the ground were it not for the unsung efforts of your faithful narrator. No one knows. No one cares. You may recall me complaining a page or two back about my genius going unrecognized- sweet Mary, I'm beginning to realize my entire person is going unrecognized! It's as if I walk around the set, breaking each vertebrae in my back one-by-one, blood pouring from my nose and ears, doing everything in my power to keep this demented train from jumping its tracks, and no one even notices my presence even so much as to move out my way were I stumbling along holding three lead security safes full of cement medicine balls and condensed manatee fat above my head. Well, we'll see just how well they fare, flailing about aimlessly, without my supportive backbone. I'm quitting tomorrow. Fuck this job. Million dollar idea: ice cream that does not melt.
