Dostojevskij, another great example of how being broke as fuck doesn't have to break your spirit. At least, if you suffer enough, you might get a statue after you die.
Another day
Not one of the better ones, though. It's a quarter to three in the morning and I'm thinking of giving it up, in a bold attempt of sleep. That's a sign that it's not been much of a day. Since I went to bed at ten in the morning, I naturally woke up at four p.m or something and I don't know what's worse, that the day was wasted or that I didn't care very much. So no school. I've been a lazy slacker this entire week actually, and now the quite unpleasent vibes of isolation start to creep up on me. Kind of like that first story in The New York Trilogy, the one where the guy spends his life alone in a flat and eventually vanish. Or if that was the second. Anyway. You get the idea.
Been trying to make something interesting work today. Not much going on. It bugs the shit out of me that I'm broke as shit, and that the people responsible for throwing me the financial breadcrums are silent as if dead. Long story. Beurocracy. Fucking despise it. Have to take manners in my own hands of course. Just wonder kinda how. It's a web of shit trying to get a hold of people working in high buildings. It's all computers and formalia, and if you actually talk to somebody it's always somebody elses problem. Eventually you end up at the computers again, and you're basically fucked. And if you haven't got one single penny to pay the rent? Tough shit kid. Your problem. Right. Perhaps I should rob a bank? Given the logic of beurocracy it's the best option. At worst, I'd end up in jail but as far as society's concerned I guess I'd be better off in jail. I mean then I'll be doing the country a favor by entering some kind of purpose. Somebody has to be behind bars too.
I really hate my unability to shake off money. As long as the bank account is dry, so is my damn soul. The genious light spreads poor light with a weak flicker. Looks like I might be missing the party on Friday, unless somebody hands me some heavy charity. The whole thing starts up at The Red Dane, as tradition holds it. That's a funny girl. I love Danish people in general. Danes do have more fun.
Yeah well, cash is king. If they'd just cut me some slack from behind the desks in the offices over at the buildings. Some kind of nice phrase, some kind of human response. I don't really trust them, but if me and Jiminy Cricket here are allowed to wish upon a star, I'd hope there won't be any complications and that some extra digits could appear on my account. Cross my heart and hope to die, I'd be a less whiny fuck about everything and I could start to live life again. You know, get a well-needed haircut, have a beer once in a while, get some groceries other than Oat Meal and noodles (in this household, milk is currently a luxury), go to the Capital and make a demo, finish my literary "wingtester" project and, who knows, eventually make some money myself.
Yeah... High hopes, right?
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