I'm Not Working

I'm not working.
I should be working.
They're paying me to work.
But I'm not working.

I'm not focused.
I'm spinning out like a VW on a frozen pond.
I'm searching old people I went to school with.
I'm looking up talent agencies.
I'm cyberstalking people to see if they're still acting or in the business.
I'm reading about bands on Wikipedia and following links that I think are interesting.
I'm reading about Eddie Money. His real last name is Mahoney.
I'm searching imdb for this dude I worked with during my undergraduate days.
There's not a current picture of him anywhere.
I'm writing. And it's not work-writing. It's just words sent into a digital pseudoreality.
Just. Words.

I'm not working.
I must be broken.
If I'm not working, then I'm broken.
But I don't want to be fixed.
I want to lay low.
I want to fly under the radar until 5:30 and escape with my life.

I want to shit my pants.
I want to urinate all over my chair.
I want to pull out my eyebrows.
...nah... I don't want to do that. Any of that.
But I do want something to happen so I have a funny story to tell on Letterman.
About the days when I was working for the government.
And how the benefits were good.
And you think your job is secure, but it's not really.
And you were thinking that your career was dead.
And you would never go anyplace.
Especially that one day that I shat my pants at work.
Or whatever it is that I want to have happen.

I'm thinking about chocolate cake.
And how I should brush my teeth more.
And taking a shower.
And my wife's private parts.
And the musical stylings of Saul Williams.
And how I can hear people outside my cubicle and how I wish they would shut up.
And farting.
And how the lead singer of Crash Test Dummies said that his voice was low because he has 3 balls.
And sweaty pits.
And buses that aren't the right bus.
And hair.
And sleep.
And plasma.
And health care.
And studio space.
And getting my contacts organized.

This.
Is not.
Work.

I'm hoping that by putting it all out here like this, I'll be able to get back to work.
I'll be productive.
Like the movies want me to be.
Like the fairy tales tell me I should be.
Like all the rhetoric and blah-blah-blah-BLAH.
I'll get something done and then the world will shine with productivity smiles.

But I hate all that.
Not like rageful hate.
Just hate, like when you step in a random puddle of somebody's spittle.
"Oh, man, I hate walking in somebody elses spit."
And then you walk it off on the pavement and go into Wal-mart like a good little consumer.

Diabetes mellitus.
Peripheral neuropathy.
Onion burgers with aged Swiss.
831 printouts.

Fuck.

Today is not going by quickly.
Today is dragging.
Today.
I am not working.
Today I'm broken.

I'm ready for bed now.
And I'll stay asleep for two and a half years.
And when I wake up, I'll have $100,000 in the bank that will just be there.
And I'll be 100 pounds lighter.
And my hair will be back on the top of my head and out of my ears.
And I'll have a six-pack of abs.
And the sun will lightly glide down my cheek in the morning when I wake up.

Deep breath.
Deep. Deep breath.

Going to give this work-thing a second chance now.
Gonna try to work.
Gonna try to win the gold.