What I’m going to do with my last paycheck from RADAR
I’m not going to cash it.
While it could cover a couple months’ rent, I have greater priorities. I’m going to keep it on me throughout the rest of my campaign. So the next time my seething malcontent of a supervisor – with her matted hair, tits like sandbags, and unearned confidence, cuts me off with her infuriating criticism I’m going to jump up on the table and wave it in the air willy wonka style. Then I’ll slam it down on the table.
Next I will bring my face close enough to hers (close enough so she can hear my teeth rattle and tongue swell with resentment) and explain that there was a time, a beautiful time, when I was paid for my words. That my ideas, MY FUCKING SYLLABLES were assigned a monetary value. That I had an audience, small, but loyal: a collection of people who, at one time, savored my words.
And the only reason why I’m in that fucking room with her is because I get paid to be. And her words mean fuck all to me.
(the college age intern asked me out of nowhere asked me if I ever read Choire Sischa. I wanted to scream.)