Work work.

We're a broken people living under loaded gun.

I've had to take my first tentative steps into the world of working for your keep recently.
Suffice to say that the beginning of what I know will be a long road has left me slightly bitter, as you can probably tell from the last few things I've written on this blog.
I suppose I'm writing about it to justify it to myself, and to set in type what exactly about the whole business makes me feel this way.
I suppose the biggest problem I have with the whole retarded rigmarole is...well, I need to paraphrase Zero Punctuation here in order to get my point across.

"We are all special people and must let our specialness shine through. And then go back to serving coffee to shouty people who look like they make a living smuggling hams."

There are amazingly talented people on this planet who should have nothing standing between them and what it is that makes them amazingly talented. Granted, sometimes these people manage to seamlessly merge their talent with their work - some saxophone prodigy who does nothing but play, most musicians, established writers. But I fucking guarantee you that those people would have spent a portion of their lives doing shit work for shit pay. There's the fuck of it - people waste their lives away doing shit they hate and worrying about money. I am sick of money. I do not wish to think about it anymore. And of course I'm monumentally arrogant and the thought of doing something because I have to is an abominable one. Perhaps I'm weak. I know for a fact I'll get used to it - I have two long shifts this weekend, I'm halfway through and the second one doesn't bother me in the slightest. I just resent the fact that I'm acclimatising, so to speak.
And I can't type anymore because I'm being distracted. Fuck.