Sunday, February 21, 2010


Jobs. The most fundamental form of Nihilistic nemesis. It's funny when people want to live a righteous, non-conformist life, free of social norms and obligations. Inside everyone, there is a Christopher Mccandless who wants to get the hell out of the city and into the mountains where you can hunt for food, swim for recreation and dig for sexual satisfaction. But look what happened to Christopher Mccandless in the end. If you thought the film was beautiful and melancholically serene, you're right. It was. But the truth is, the guy died a regret-filled, lonely death. His agent and publisher probably made a lot of money but that's besides the point.

Coming back to jobs. We all hate them. I haven't met a single person who enjoys his work more than he enjoys the weekend. It's just not possible. Unless that person is a Marijuana farmer, a professional musician, a male porn-star, or a lying bastard. We need the money. So we become the weekend warriors, trudging through the 5 or 6 days to see dawn ejaculate on your sunday so that you can enjoy a late breakfast and two awkward hours in the evening with friends that have now become acquaintances.

So yeah, that's that. There will always be a Canadian dream, a Goan dream, a Manali dream. But the truth is, you will be where you are. You will have the odd vacation - a bastard child of the long weekend, where you will go 100 km outside the city limits and think, that some day you will give all of it away and retire in the mountains - shooting shit with the birds, chewing on a hay stem, playing old songs on your guitar and smiling into the crimson sunset.

But you'll always return to the city. The city, where you will block your nose with your handkerchief against the fecal stench of a 12 hour monday; with sweat running down the back of your white shirt, praying that you get a seat in the train, praying that your boss will have that much-promised appraisal meeting with you, praying that tonight you mother will not complain, praying that the hot little thing from accounts makes eye contact with you so that you can grow balls five years later to ask her out, praying that your ex-wife does not bang the world like she promised, praying that some day your life will end and you will not be left to clean the bed that you shat on, because you're 73 and your sphincter has become as reliable as the pension ads on TV that promise you a well-endowed life.