Hello again. Please find enclosed this weeks hack work. Straight from brain to paper. This hustle is engrained now. Just like death. There is no shaking it off. It’s all there is. All there ever was. Without it what else is there but routine. And I can’t face that rotten dance. So I tap away and send them off. When the reply doesn’t come it’s easy. They took the easy way out and that’s ok with me. Whats worse is when they knock on your door only to dangle the carrot of hope in front of you, making you jump through their stupid fucking hoops, dragging your spirit through all kinds of raw shite until there’s nothing left, only to close the door in your face at the end of it all. And the whole time they act like they are your friend. Wearing a smile. A crooked grin from ear to ear. But Ive grown wise to the ways by this stage of the game. I know a rejection when I see one. The bigger the smile the sharper the knife. The slow no. It’s an artform to these people. They get off on it. And yet the door is always wide open for the lowest of the low to walk right through. The ones who talk the language. Tick the boxes. Dance the dance. I’ve found that the ones with least to offer are the ones that scream the loudest and are most self assured. While the strongest of the strange stay underground. Where they are told they belong. A rare breed. “You don’t see them often, for wherever the crowd is, they are not. Those odd ones, not many.” For they are not allowed into the club. They are forced to remain hidden. Keep quiet. The square pegs of society. But the brave ones forge their own path, and create their own doors. Kick holes in the walls and creep through the cracks. Slip in when nobody is looking. Build their own empire from within the castle walls. And then of course the smilers come out of the woodwork and suddenly want to be pals again. “We believed in you from the giddy up”… “We always knew you belonged in the big league”.. “Welcome to the club old buddy”… All that crap. It’s a game. A hustle. A stale dance. I won’t do it any longer. I’m finished with it. Done. Finito. Right after this last submission. One last whack at it. Then I’m done. Over. Forever. I guess I’m not being very clear here am I. Ah well.
Yours
Mckowski