This post is rated PG-13 because I’m experimenting with using the “S” word. I don’t think it’s a bad word today, so there. But I realize that some of you don’t want your grandchildren or yo momma to read it.
I’m in the bathroom, getting ready for Work. Work has become Work. With a capitol “W.” I don’t know when this happened. I’m not going to get into this. This was supposed to be a place where I came to write about how I felt about the work I was doing.
What is “work?”
Anyway, I’m putting on my makeup, so that I can go off to smell like cigars. I haven’t had time to write … cigar reviews. Not even those. I avoid blogging in one of the many blogs I have created that I cannot decide on … because I don’t do anything but whine. I only wrote in here because I have been at the shop for long enough to know that nobody gives a shit.
I take pictures – some … but I haven’t had time to post them. I haven’t gotten organized and I haven’t figured out how to do this really. I need an uninterrupted work week. Or three.
No, I don’t mean Work. I mean WORK. As in my work.
As it is now, I know how to do things for other people. I know how to watch as other people live out their dreams. I have gotten really good at sorting things. Wiping things off. I excel – at doing those things. I believe that the phrase used was – that I was “a godsend” at those types of things.
Housewife stuff. Have been good at that for years. But I’m a girl – and the other thing that was mentioned when my … uh … potential … was discussed; was that I have a “great rack.” Not necessary to really know your merch … if you can distract your clientele with your hooters. Nice.
And this right smack dab after discussion of Paul Simon lyrics and their content. Sheryl Crow. Sometimes I feel like the underpants gnomes have absconded with my life. I wasn’t writing about any of this before. I’ve decided, screw this. I’m writing about it now. I just don’t even care anymore. No one is going to agree with any of this, because I have a uterus … this is what I was thinking. But then the thought – no, no one is going to read this won out – so here I am.
I have more I could say, but I’m not tacky yet.
No one is paying me to be myself. So if I don’t want a Vegas-in-Austin version of what I was doing at church, I’m going to have to watch my back. That is, if I want to do what I want to do.
I’m getting paid (a bit) to work here. No one is paying me to play. I’m going to have to do that on my own. I’m going to have to fight to do that on my own. It is much more useful and expedient if I am not playing … if I am committed to the dreams and musical presence of others.
I must ask myself daily as I fluff and stick and straighten and have no time to write and as my practice time dwindles …
Do I want to be a smoking groupie?