it's dope, duders.
the thing is, though, that these days i'm falling apart.
and that's not good.
however,
despite the early mornings, and uncomfortably late nights
of occupying space and time away from my hallowed heroic home,
and even with these gnarled and bent, bruised and hurtie hands,
swollen and sore from all the zips i've zapped over the past few days;
and these old-manly back spasms i'm wincing through,
(from staying hunched over all of that castoff cardstock i've accrued
for making my melty skull bobotrons on)
i've still found a little time,
...with some helpful ingredient sourcing from my lovely assistant ampy-d-
to activate the autumnal mantlepiece hottness on the doodie-twinklin' bricks
in the great room of my luscious and luxurious woodsly goodhall,
a.k.a. the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
check the decked-halls-type teleport:
and don't even try to act like that's not expert.
we both know better.
so,
i've got that going on, now.
which is a clear sign that we're ready for the next few months, friends.
it looks molto nice, and it has that new englandy white mountain white person flair.
that's a thing.
you can put inflatable whatevers on your lawn, and purple lights on your awnings.
i'm not the boss of you;
and if you genuinely like that sort of stuff,
you should do it to it.....
but,
that's what poor people do.
hahahahaha.
my elite jauns give me a good feeling when i'm coming and going
to and from the only other spot i ever find myself in these days.
work is for suckers,
and while i may live like i'm a champion,
at least, when i'm looking at that sexy mantle, anyway,
i can't believe how much i've got to work just to maintain it.
ugh.
responsible adulthood is a real sunovab!tch.
***********
you might want to skip to the end now if you don't really care about complaints.
i've got a raging rasher of rationed rationalism that the full moon is totally
inflating into a full-blown rant about the relative merits and demerits
of MORE vs. less.
mmhmm.
proceed if you care to, you've been aprised...
-
i wonder how much better or worse my job would be if my coworkers
had a similar drive to dominate every minute of every day?
no joke.
because i need a vacation.
i mean it.
i don't really even want one-
but i'm thinking that the consequences of continuing at this rate will be catastrophic.
too much is the right amount,
right up until supersaturation causes a calamitous crash.
ummmmmmm.
what i mean is-
two years straight of six days a week,
and my physical frame is genuinely broken.
the thing is,
if you want MORE, you've got to do MORE.
in that regard,
i will seriously do every tattoo in the whole woodsly goodness,
because i want to stack those stacks on stacks,
and pack my sh!t up and get outta here.
y'know?
maybe not.
we're awfully inconsistent, in terms of scheduling, up here,
as soon as autumn sets in.
happily,
it's a short reprieve from the punishingly brutal vacation straight treet-style pace
of summer's pummeling funnel of incoming traffic.
that means we can look at leaves and sunsets and sh!t,
without only seeing outlines and shading and paper-towely swipes and wiping.
but that sort of sightseeing seasonal appreciation doesn't pay the bills.
nope.
not even one little teeny tiny bit.
so,
even though there's less work in the works,
it seems like i might be the only one who actually works at the studio.
which is downright weird,
since i'm also the only tattzap attacker to be unofficially labeled persona-non-grata
more than once through the duration of my tenure at the shop.
hahaha.
i'm not even supposed to be there today.
or any day.
and yet, it's still really happening,
more than ever before.
that's a logic skip, and a confoundingly compound conundrum.....
neighbors,
what do you do when the only one around who really wants to make
allllll the mutha-'ucking movie checks,
is the selfsame scalding skald of skin and blood who will stay on
for countless extra hours to doo-doo that freaky sh!t,
whenever the call goes up from the entitled and schedule-inflexible F*ers
who think we might realllly want to tattoo for longer and longer
and later and later as well as somehow even earlier and earlier than ever before,
and that hard-working warrior poet is intractable, incorrigible,
and unrepentantly resolute, not to mention unimpeachably absolute
in their determination of what's dope, what's ugly, and what needs to F* right off??
that's a lot for any one man or woman to live up to.
but,
what happens if you ALSO expect that attentive and actively participating
powerhouse of poise, purpose, style, and dedication to take it exxxtra easy,
and turn down the eleveny level of turbo-loud fresh hardness,
in order to ensure that the no-show nancypantses who coast in on fumes,
and aren't even pretending to do the minimum,
let alone the preposterous notion of contributing anything more than not enough,
will get the same opportunities and appointments,
and in turn, that sweet sweet moolah,
on a parallel to what the overachievers earn?
well,
if you honestly actually really believe that that sounds reasonable,
you're clearly effing up super hard,
and you might even need remedial lessons in cause and effect.
because that's SO not a thing.
c'mon.
don't be dumb.
if you do less than the least,
you're an A*-hole,
and also i don't like you.
at all.
forever.
word the eff up, kids.
that's real talk from the here and now...
too much is the right amount,
and neither breaks nor brakes are ever to be applied;
never quiet, never soft.....
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