The Dark Times come fast, my friends. One day you're a telephone psychic and on top of the world, the next day your wife leaves you, she gets shot, you lose your job, and your cat dies. You find yourself living in a cold, bitter wasteland, sleeping on the floor of a furnitureless apartment with nothing but porn, pizza, and the occasional boneless wing to get you through.
Things reach rock bottom for you one early morning at around 4:00 AM. You're walking down the street to the gas station for a pack of smokes and a can of Power Horse when a man easily twice your size grabs you. He says something like, “Give me six fucking dollars.” You know you only have a $20 in your wallet, and that's like a week's worth of food, and there's no way he's getting it. He grabs you again as you try to walk on, and he keeps yelling about six fucking dollars. This time, he doesn't let go of you. There's no way you're giving him the $20, though, so you start talking to him. Soon, you talk him out of mugging you by convincing him that you are as miserable as he is, you hate this place as much as he does, and your woman walked out just like his did. You make him laugh, talk about how things are better in the South, and tell him to come with you to the store. Once you get change from the smokes and the Power Horse, you'll give him the $6.00 he needs. He walks with you, you give him some cash, he says “God Bless You,” and wishes you better days ahead. You do the same, and then walk home. As you crack open your Power Horse, recline on your blanket-bed, and start talking to your one remaining cat, a part of your ceiling collapses. The City, like the house in The Amityville Horror, is telling you to get out.
Eventually, you make it to warmer climes, and the Dark Times slowly give way to the Gray Times. There's less porn, but the pizza isn't nearly as good and you still can't really find a job. You work in a call center, grade standardized tests, and then decide to sell Kias for a living. The man who interviewed you told you he drops more at the titty bar on a Friday night than you make in a month, so you figure it's gotta be great. I mean, you always wanted to sell fucking Kias, didn't you? Of course, you bail before your first day, and commit to another stint of unemployment. But then, you discover that some people will pay you to write from home, which is perfect, because you like to write and you hate wearing pants that aren't flannel.
You meet a lovely girl and the Gray Times start to pass, and you find yourself working from home and watching a lot of bad movies. One day, you decide you'll write about these bad movies, so the People (or your six friends) will also know about them. After some time, you send some of the stuff you've written about these bad movies to a guy, and he says he is willing to pay you decent money to write blogs for a living. You still get to work from home, so you still get to watch many, many bad movies.
After some more time, a company reads some of your stuff and convinces you to move back to your hometown and settle in for a job that will require you to wear real pants as well as write, edit, and manage some blogs. You do it, leaving the bad movies behind. You bitch about it a lot, but you know deep down it's the coolest job you've ever had, and there are moments when you catch yourself with your feet up on your desk, staring out the window of your office at the Dallas skyline, and you think, “In some fucked up way, if it weren't for Grieco, I would never have gotten to where I am right now.”
Thank you all. I couldn't have done it without you. Goodbye.
--#5
Things reach rock bottom for you one early morning at around 4:00 AM. You're walking down the street to the gas station for a pack of smokes and a can of Power Horse when a man easily twice your size grabs you. He says something like, “Give me six fucking dollars.” You know you only have a $20 in your wallet, and that's like a week's worth of food, and there's no way he's getting it. He grabs you again as you try to walk on, and he keeps yelling about six fucking dollars. This time, he doesn't let go of you. There's no way you're giving him the $20, though, so you start talking to him. Soon, you talk him out of mugging you by convincing him that you are as miserable as he is, you hate this place as much as he does, and your woman walked out just like his did. You make him laugh, talk about how things are better in the South, and tell him to come with you to the store. Once you get change from the smokes and the Power Horse, you'll give him the $6.00 he needs. He walks with you, you give him some cash, he says “God Bless You,” and wishes you better days ahead. You do the same, and then walk home. As you crack open your Power Horse, recline on your blanket-bed, and start talking to your one remaining cat, a part of your ceiling collapses. The City, like the house in The Amityville Horror, is telling you to get out.
Eventually, you make it to warmer climes, and the Dark Times slowly give way to the Gray Times. There's less porn, but the pizza isn't nearly as good and you still can't really find a job. You work in a call center, grade standardized tests, and then decide to sell Kias for a living. The man who interviewed you told you he drops more at the titty bar on a Friday night than you make in a month, so you figure it's gotta be great. I mean, you always wanted to sell fucking Kias, didn't you? Of course, you bail before your first day, and commit to another stint of unemployment. But then, you discover that some people will pay you to write from home, which is perfect, because you like to write and you hate wearing pants that aren't flannel.
You meet a lovely girl and the Gray Times start to pass, and you find yourself working from home and watching a lot of bad movies. One day, you decide you'll write about these bad movies, so the People (or your six friends) will also know about them. After some time, you send some of the stuff you've written about these bad movies to a guy, and he says he is willing to pay you decent money to write blogs for a living. You still get to work from home, so you still get to watch many, many bad movies.
After some more time, a company reads some of your stuff and convinces you to move back to your hometown and settle in for a job that will require you to wear real pants as well as write, edit, and manage some blogs. You do it, leaving the bad movies behind. You bitch about it a lot, but you know deep down it's the coolest job you've ever had, and there are moments when you catch yourself with your feet up on your desk, staring out the window of your office at the Dallas skyline, and you think, “In some fucked up way, if it weren't for Grieco, I would never have gotten to where I am right now.”
Thank you all. I couldn't have done it without you. Goodbye.
--#5
