PolkOut.com is staring blankly into space!

Feeling every second go by ever so slowly.

F!ck it, nobody's going to buy email addresses.  You can have 'em for free if you want.  I don't care anymore.

So yeah, I got a job.  Slicing meat.  Packing salad.  The macaroni salad really does smell like farts.  For f!cks sake, I can type eighty words per minute, I think my time is worth more than eight bucks an hour.  But it seems everyone I sent me resume to disagrees.

As you can imagine, work's a bitch.  I wouldn't mind if it were even mildly intellectually stimulating, if there were some thinking invovled.  But no, most of my time is spent staring blankly into space or into the eyes of middle-aged housewives, bored, physically withering away but already dead inside, infecting suburbia like gangrene infects a stale wound.

When your mind goes blank, free of all thought, as you're scooping macaroni salad out of a bucket and into a tiny plastic container for half an hour--because it's just so damn hard for a synapse to even fire when it's nine in the morning and all that's in your stomach is four cups of coffee and HATRED--you begin thinking about things differently.  Maybe I've begun delving into the darkest parts of my psyche or channeling the spirits of dead crazy people, I don't know, but what I do know is that teeth are fucking ridiculous.  It's like rocks...in your mouth...the hell?  In fact, human beings are just like big piles of rocks tied loosely together by meat...so much meat.  Meat is everywhere.

But anyway, I'm beat.  I'm amazed I managed to muster up the will to even do this sh!t this week, but that's the sort of dedication I've got to my audience. 

I've been sober for over a month now.  Or maybe about a week and half.  I don't know.  I'm not even sure what today's date is; all I see in the back of my head is that goddamn deli slicer, whirring, spinning, hungry for my blood.  I think I'm going to get myself a nightcap, but all I've got is Listerine and shitty Russian cologne.  Fuck it, I've made due with worse. 

--End Transmission--