Real Jobs

People often ask me, "What do you do for a living?"

To this I reply, "I'm a writer."

"A writer?" they say and scratch their chin. Or pick their nose. Or scratch their balls which they just scratched a second ago when they thought I wasn't looking (those dirty, rotten scoundrels!). "Do you make money off it?"

If I didn't make a penny, I could not call it a job and keep a straight face, could I? In that case, it's more of a hobby or a charity. Or some oddball exercise that I do to entertain myself like my ball-scratching friend. "Actually I do make money, but not that much."

"Then why don't you get a real job?"

This is ever the loathsome drivel of naive, uninformed, mean-spirited fools. Do you see me in this chair every day? Do you think that I'm making love to the computer for hours on end ('twould be a shocking experience, to say the least)? This is work, and although I rarely sweat and don't scratch my balls nearly as often as you do, it doesn't mean that I'm playing around here. Putting word after word takes effort. At times it can be excruciating, especially when I'm toiling with a sentence or paragraph that just does not seem to fit.

But it's play time, of course. My mistake! To naked eye, it looks like I've stapled my rear to a chair, and pound keys as fast as I can to see how long it takes to completely destroy the keyboard.

To your divine wisdom, I relent. I am a fraud! A practitioner of a grand, elaborate scheme of depriving customers out of their hard earned money with my nonsensical words. I really do nothing but stare at the monitor all day. Why? Because it's fun! Wouldn't you do the same if you could find a way to make a living at it as I have?

So I sit here, my ass bulging from inactivity as I try to find meaning out of the chaos spilling from me. The words that form by banging at keys any monkey can do. In fact, many can do this with greater effect than I. Of them I am jealous, and even though I foam at the mouth, and vomit and crap out endless drivel (sometimes all at once), I lack their deft touch.

I am a half-cocked carronade of gibberish, ready to pummel the page with my maniacal, unbridled savvy every chance I get.

Yes, I am without merit or wit for I lack a "real" job. It is all pretend. In fact, I only came up with this profession an hour ago.

Writing isn't "real" work. It's playtime. It doesn't require any thought, it's just the mindless mashing of keys until one reaches some agreed upon designation or finally tires of the chore. Then it's off to the post office with the latest work. Oh, how those reputable New York editors look out for me and help develop me into the finest author that I can be so that I may feed the hungry masses with my intellect, and put food on the table if I am fortunate!

Because I have no "real" job, I must be sick in the head. Terminally ill with the slow-acting poison of self-delusion--how can I actually believe that I have something worth repeating? Characters hellbent on revenge, stories teeming with fairy folk, lycan princesses and otherworldly beasts--no one in their right mind would find such things interesting in the least!

I am not worthy of respect, because there is no talent or craft to this. No artistry, nothing dignifiable to a world that clearly knows better.

So I confess. I need a "real" job. Like those mindless fools at the sandwich shop that never get my order right, or those bastards that won't tell me if my pizza is ready, even though I've been standing front of them for past thirty minutes waiting for my name to be called before I lose my temper and shove that half-baked pie up the manager's ass.

You don't need another writer. There are plenty of perfectly capable halfwits out there already. No need for another lazy bastard that sits in his chair all day, coming up with crazy ideas. Nope, plenty of those worthless souls already.

Yes, indeed, I am poor, and struggling to fit in. In some dead end job, no doubt, where imagination is replaced by the need to wash dirty dishes or learn the expert craft of flipping burgers.

I am a professional vomiter of words, a human word blender crapping out copy. Nothing more. Lead me to the promise of an honest job and wage so that I may be redeemed.

Help me so that may one day know what a "real" life is, by virtue of having a "real" job.

Amen.