Death To Make A Living

To Whom It May Be None of Your Concern,

Writing isn't a sustainable lifestyle profession. I thought I knew that going into it, but I really didn't. But, then again, it doesn't really take much for me to be content. A room, cigarettes, beer, survival food, and a few other miscellaneous vices are all I really want or need. But writing isn't covering that. It hardly seems fair. I recently graduated from college, about a year ago, but can't find a job that field of study. Journalism is a farce of a profession, anyway. I borrowed nearly a hundred grand just to find out I don't respect the craft. Or should I say the craftiness? If anything they just taught me how to finesse people for information and then kick them aside once I'm done with them, but not before exploiting their gossip for public consumption. The loan collectors don't care about that though. And other than a nagging side job at a restaurant, I barely have any kind of money coming in. Poordom always did seem to be a predisposition.

Unable to make any kind of real money selling my short stories, or any of the other bullshit I've written, I found myself thrusted into using my "talents" (hahaha) for a lesser good. I fell into what could only be best described as a "suicide-letter writer," for a person who couldn't quite put their disdain for their own life down into their own words. 

You'd be surprised at the lasting impression this particular suicide case wanted to leave. All of a sudden he wanted to be remembered as a poetic. It was kind of poethetic. He longed for the flowery description of his hidden inner turmoils and unhappiness. As fucked up as it was, it became my only way of financing life's bills, at that moment. Being broke will make you do crazy things. Blame it all on my bank account and societal sadness. Blood isn't on my hands. Just in the ink.

It all started when I was waiting for my train home from work. I cheated on my writing with my side job and we did it in the minimum wage position. I got to the station and had about a half hour before my train was scheduled to arrive. A half hour gave me time for two or three cigarettes. I sparked the first.

Of course, within seconds of sparking up, someone came up and asked to bum a smoke. He looked like he needed it, so I gave him one. I knew the struggle and how real it could get. The guy looked to be in his late 20's, but was physically aging faster than that. He already had a significantly receding hairline and was rather blatantly balding. He wore the gaunt, pale expression of man at the end of his wits. Stressed is not a word that could have done him justice. Hopeless seemed more justified.

As usual, with the bummed cigarette came the pointless chit-chat. Also as usual, this led to me having to sit through a person complaining about something. Anytime someone bums a smoke off of you they instantly go into telling you about their problems. The man mentioned that his name was Randy.

By the time I got to my second cigarette, Randy was starting to go a little more in detail than even most cig conversations tended to get. He went on this long soliloquy on how his girlfriend of nine years had been getting dicked down behind his back. Up until finding out, he was planning on proposing to her and had bought the ring and everything. He even pulled the ring out of his pocket and showed it to me. It looked expensive. He'd spent a fortune on a hoe. Many men have done the same.

I stupidly tried to trade stories of misery and told him about my struggles career wise with my writing, and how I couldn't make enough money selling stories to even be poor. No future, no career, no hope in sight. It was so heartfelt and depressing. Woe is me and all that crap. Although Randy's ally in sorrow, he barely even acknowledged my sorrow. It did pale in comparison, but shit, I'm depressed too, man. Let's match sympathetic energies, otherwise I might as well be a damn volunteer psychiatrist. Sorrow isn't a contest but humanity seems to often treat it as such.