SubscribeChildhood has nothing on adulthood. Being a grown-up is an awfully grand adventure.Goddamn YES. A THOUSAND TIMES YES.
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars,
compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good
health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed
interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your
friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a
three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing
game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose
rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable
home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up
brats you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life.
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But I'd like to know how to get in whilst paying x-hundred dollars a week on rent. Move to a smaller place, further out? Sorry, no such places exist and how am I meant to clutch things to my breast in a room so fucking tiny I need to step out into the hallway to turn around? How am I supposed to skip and prance and la-la-la when I must rise at 5:30am, attend to my ablutions, consume This Week's Scientifically Approved Breakfast, commute through traffic denser than water, wait for an elevator, then bluster through into the office and avoid disapproving scowls from supervisors because I dared to stop and smell the roses on the way (these roses being a tall soy flat white with an extra shot)? Working in the city, where do I perambulate during my lunch? Through the relative solace of the botanical gardens, where they seem to be habitually chainsawing trees, using leaf-blowers, and pumping water from one place to another through Industrial-Revolution-decibel machines?
What happens when we have all given up our deadbeat jobs, moving figures around inside a computer, and moved into the country to raise some milking chickens and plow goats and breed maize? Nobody reads or looks at art or enjoys music any more so those of us with even remote talents in any of these areas are left up shit creek because while people might give us money to help us live if they had more free time in order to experience and appreciate those things we create, they themselves are struggling to stay afloat and just do not have the time or inclination. And if we get all buddy-buddy and buy one another's shit and pimp one another's platforms, a-la boingboing, well, it starts to look just a wee little bit too much like a self-justifying circle-jerk with no intrinsic or lasting value.
How do I throw off the chains when the chains are, paradoxically, the only things preventing me from sinking? I don't value my job particularly but I value the fact that it affords me an income, which permits me to do an ever-diminishing range of things that I enjoy doing, and certainly there are some of us blessed enough to secure a living by doing things they genuinely love, such as crafting furniture and blowing glass and blogging non-stop about the new generation of very-slightly-smaller-iPods. And I don't want to sound hard done by, because I am not, far from it. It's just that the world is unfortunately not that simple for most of us and this Slow Down Movement, or whatever you like to call it, while noble and indeed necessary, is beginning more and more to look like an arse pressed up against a windshield.
Sorry, this is all over the place. I admit I idled a little longer than the accustomed hour at lunchtime, enjoying a few olives, properly marinaded in Tanqueray and vermouth. And, oh, it was good.
posted by turgid dahlia at 10:59 PM on May 26 [83 favorites]