spivak's journal, January 28th, two thousand and ten.
ConEd workers shouting in street early in morning. Tiny dicks, tiny minds. Staten Island is afraid of me. This place is a shithole. These streets are roads and their gutters are full of filth and when the drains clog up then I have to get my plunger.
Had job interview. Positive but held by woman. Felt uncomfortable. Still Adrian Sterling put on good face. Kept coughing, cancer running rampant mirroring this ghetto. Didn't take my cat, it won't take me.
The brown and shrouded throngs at the corner will turn their heads to my window, hear Neutral Milk Hotel and shout "ZOMG TORRENT PLOX". I will look down and whisper, "No."
Still looking for work. Leads are thinning like AIDS patient with the same happy destiny. I could get a decent job for a decent day's pay. Instead nothing but 1099 and outbound sales without promise of steady income. CareerBuilder and Monster only offer droppings of our socialist President and do-nothing Republicans.
Now I return to life of compromise built upon foundation of regret.
Do not pity me.
The previous entry is a pastiche of Rorschach's Journal. Rorschach is the gravelly-voiced guy with the black and white mask in the Watchmen movie. This is the same movie with the giant glowing blue wang.
