Ain’t that the truth? And doesn’t the artist’s frustration apply to everything? Childhood. School. Work. Work. Work. Vacation. Work. Work. Work. A Nap. Then Death. “I busted my ass for a steak dinner and all I got were these weary bones.” When you’ve been on the ride for so long, you forget that you can get off. We join the money-earning cycle because our industrialized society doesn’t have a place for people who don’t want to work. It’s not like we can go and live off the land. Whose land? And did you hear that shotgun? Don’t mistake my stoic rant for self-pitied whining. (There’s a diff.) We do have options, although not anything particularly comfortable. And so we cope. Some of us create art. Most of us drink. Some of us post our frustrations on electrical cabinets on Crescent Heights. Some of us actually enjoy the ride. And we all dance and sing and kiss and laugh until the pain of living becomes dull and barely noticeable.
(And no. I won’t make an extended comment on the misspelling of $HIT and speculate about how $IHT is THI$ misspelled backwards. And how perhaps THI$ really is just $HIT.)
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