This is a time-delayed post, initially written at about 2:30 pm but I was unable to put it up because of the mother-effin grandmama of all firewalls around the building I was in. You know I was dope-fiendin up in there trying to log on to blogger... straight bloggin junkie. It's a damn shame.
It's your friendly neighbor-hood Mala, transmitting to you live and direct from the confines of an office. Yep, your girl went back to work. Somebody put me out of my effin misery. Please? Thanks.
To coin a phrase, "work sucks". Or in Mala-ese "This blows hairy monkey ass." Of course if it sucks so much, then the next question would be, "well Miss Mala, what the fuck are you doing there then?"
My answer? Feeding the need.
The need to be spoiled. The need for new shoes. The need to tell that guy at the bar "Fuck off, I can buy my own damned drinks…"
You see, I quit my job a few months back because I wanted to pursue my dream of writing the great ghetto epic saga-type tome. I figured that my job was holding me back because I was dedicating upwards of 60 hours of my week to motherfuckers that I don't even like. I thought that by freeing myself, I'd be able to write some shit that would get me pizzzzzaaaaaid.
Ha!
It's not I won't get paid, but who in the hell knows when. I found that the writing game is not like hustling or even being in music where you can be discovered on the porch of your granddaddy's shack. I learned that even if I wrote some shit that a publisher practically creamed over, I'd still be spending all of the time in the world writing, re-writing and writing some more before it was fit for mass consumption. I will be writing for-fricken-ever. That in and of itself doesn't bother me. I love writing. Hell, you should be able to tell considering I blog as if the safety of my pert behind depended on it. What does bother me though is the starving artist lifestyle. Fuck that shit in its entirety. Seriously.
It's not that I don't know how to live the hard life. I've been through slimmer times than this. I thank the universe every single day for the family and friends that have seen me through these tough times. I know how to survive on little to nothing and look damned good doing it. However, this is one of the few times that I have actually made a conscious choice to be dead fucking broke KNOWING how spoiled my round rump is. I seemed to have forgotten how much it sucked the last friggin time I decided to live off my wits.
I'm spoiled. I like bi-weekly mani-pedi treatments. I like walking out of Barnes & Nobles with 8 books. I like taking a damn cab everywhere because nine times out of nine my damn heels weren't made for walking. I like looking at the guy offering me a drink with the ill screw face because he can go fuck himself, I'm not talking to him for 20 minutes in exchange for no damn Bacardi. I like eating well (shit, I can't even WALK past Keene's right now I'm so damn broke – and TRUST I'm in dire need of a steak). I like tasty, succulent shoes that make my long ass toes feel pretty. I like it, I like it, I like it.
It's not to say that I've completely let myself go. I still hit Sapore's for salmon and shrimp. I still get the monthly eye-brow threading. I still go to yoga and when I can eke it out, get a facial and a massage. However, when I have money these days, I tend to forget that freelancing is a fickle master indeed and I'll be all like "ooooh no honey, Mala doesn't walk," only to arrive home and wonder just where in the fuck did all of my cashola go.
So I decided to do the adult/responsible/fucked-4-ways-til-Sunday thing and go back to work. The major position that I was up doesn't begin until the 2nd of October (and damned if I won't be hung over on my first day as a result of the 1st of October being Mama Mala's BIRTHDAY - BITCHES!!!!). The secret squirrel Mala-Goes-On-Tour thing hasn't been nailed to the wall as of yet ,so that's a big wait. To pick up the slack, I picked up a temp. It blows. All kinds of random ass. Yup.
Right about now I should be rolling over, scratching something, stretching in front of a mirror while reciting all of the reasons why I am so fucking fabulous. I should then be capering to the bathroom while singing Ne Vem Que Nao Tem at the top of my lungs while scantily clad in something that has a matching tank – or not. Some time after that I should be wandering down to the chimmichurri truck for edibles and taking a walk after scarfing the aforesaid down, sipping on a .50 cent Pepsi from the habibi spot while puffing on some thing bad for my lungs.
Instead I'm sitting at a desk wondering at the unfairness of it all and the only thing keeping me sane is the hooded, drop-neck top I plan to buy and wear with a whole hell of a lot of not much of a bra under it with something skin tight and blood-flow constricting brushing the tops of those scrump-deee-leee-ish-ush stilettos I saw at De Janeiro's with my fucking name ALL OVER THEM. Yup, them thar fuckers is one bad-ass pair of shoes.
Oh yeah, I'll probably pay some bills as well. There's always that to consider, especially since in my pared-down lifestyle, my bills don't amount to much. But back to them shoes, those motherfuckers are bad. So here I am, pimping the net and trying my best to look like I'm all productive and shit and fighting the intense desire to slap the chick in the next cubicle because the sow chews gum with her mouth open, cracking it like a dime-store whore. SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU BITCH…. Yeah, not to mention the work itself sucks. I hate talking to motherfuckers on the phone that aren't my folk.
Pray for me y'all. I got 2 more days to live through on this gig. The forecast ain't sunny.
- Feelin' all anti-Evita, fuck that, please cry for me Argentina!
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