Free Write: Monkey

I want to move to fucking Montana, or someplace like that. Away from the fucking high-rises and the gas leaks of these crowded streets. I tire of the talk of insipid wisdom that means nothing, except laughing and soaking in the awesomeness that you have created, that you will pat yourself on the back for. Why is it the main priority is to make cash, cash, cash at any expense?

"Let us produce. Let us be metropolis," the high rises will say. "We will give you the luxuries you seek, but while you do so, please hold this wrench, my monkey, my tiny cog in the conglomerate machine."

In 2009, smiles are bought in the form of bubble-wrapped packages masquerading as mementos. Make your pay, have it taken away, and the rocking uncertainty evens out while you hope to find something worthwhile in the wreckage.

I keep fucking up left and right because I'm a softie pushover. I am the cog with a slight deformity, forced into the gears, teetering between "certainly sure" and "out of my mind."

"Hold this wrench, monkey," high-rises say, and I oblige.

I oblige so that I can buy books.