What I really need is a vague government job where I would show up for twenty-five years, alphabetize the universe, and collect a tiny pension. Then I would retire to a crackerbox log cabin up in the mountains and grow my own food and make those funky little mozzarella cheese braids and drive down into the valley every week and sell them to the tourists. I would read new books and re-read old books. I would have a wood-burning stove, two highly protective German Shepherds and one Teacup Yorkie. This is my retirement plan.
What I really need is to eschew this whole internet thing, or perhaps electricity altogether. But I like movies. I can't watch movies without electricity. Maybe I need to generate it myself with a sleek row of windmills. I am going ration computer time for my inner adolescent, who has no concept of excess. She needs to spend more time out of doors, but is prone to sunburn and heat exhaustion. Right now, she wants some popcorn with sugar and butter and coarse salt. Not that microwave shit either. Real popcorn.
What I really need is for someone to tell me why this is the way it is. Why this is necessary. Why this polarity exists. I'm sure this has something to do with birth order or biorhythms or the wine my mother drank in her first trimester of pregnancy.
What I really need is to become more skilled in my use of anaphora.
What I really need is old fashioned Freudian psychotherapy.
What I really need is to return you to our regularly scheduled programming.
poetry and careerism revisited
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