A concentric puddle of mush in between cloves of garlic. A grazing cow in the field of the unknown grass. An ingrown plant.
Sometimes I wonder if these things aren’t normal. Sometimes I wonder how these things have wound up here in this world. Probably something to do with the electrical musings of space time. All while I'm here with a space suit that looks mighty futuristic.
I press a button and wake from my dream, because there is no way it could be real. There is no way that a science fiction writer will ever experience one of his own stories. There is no way that I’ll ever be able to clean this floor today.
Being a janitor is the world’s worst job. When Jesus was born there was hope that he would cure the world of all the dirt. I would then not have this job. I would be a science fiction writer.
I would have large glasses instead of perfect vision. I would not have any muscle definition. I would have money, and that is the most important thing. The money that comes from sci-fi books will bring me more joy then I will ever know.
Joy is a foreign concept to me. Happiness is just a word. I cannot remember ever flashing a smile. Not even after shacking up with a beautiful lady sometime in the distant past. She was beautiful, but still I remain unhappy.
“unhappiness forever” is my motto. A motto spawned by the fact that so many people in modern civilization remain unhappy, despite their enhanced living standard. A living standard constantly in the line of fire from debt, sex with hookers, divorce, barking dogs, the beggar in the road, the thieving janitor, etc…
Why can’t everyone just be a science fiction writer?
Columns by OricXe