Teenage wasteland, revisited

So I get to quit my job on Tuesday, okay, and given everything that´s come to pass in the few months before it´s not even that big an issue to me: I do it nonchalantly for chrissakes. I do it lackadaisically if such a word exists.
I get to write some jazzy farewell e-mail then act very out-of-character and hug everybody that deserves hugging and everybody else, too, and then leave, just like that, not a care in the word: Off to greener fields & on to chapter two.

I slip on the headphones in the bus home; Echo & the Bunnymen start singing Bring on the Dancing Horses.

The rest of the week flows a lot like quicksilver and ebbs just a tiny bit like quicksand: I never see it passing yet it so drags me down. The sun doesn´t shine and it´s actually pretty cold on Friday. I get to attend my classes, though, if only to boast to that cute brunette about my new job.
I know she´s married yet the gameplan remains unchanged – not surprisingly given the current Yuga.

On TV: The occasional newscast. Sex, Lies and Videotapes if only to joke out aloud, alone, about the mullets on James Spader. Also a Cheech & Chong movie, I think the one in which they go to Europe with Burt Reynolds and Dolly Parton. Then it´s on to the Seinfeld re-runs, way past Superman Returns because it sort of reminds me of you, and finally Vietnam war-era aerial dogfight documentaries on the History Channel, which promptly slips me into an all-night You Tube binge for F-4 Phantom footage and completely unrelated assorted 1970s and 80s music videos.

I also get to eat sweets on weekdays, which I haven´t done for the past year or so, but that´s okay because I´m unemployed. I mean, for three or four days but let me live out the fantasy here alright...

Peter Townshend, I´ve just decided, looks a lot like Freddy Krueger.
I´m not really into The Who- f*cking girlie hippie sh*t- but Baba O´Riley is absolutely fantastic and I get totally psyched whenever Townshend does that thing by gyrating his arm outstretched while playing the guitar...

There´s this ranting I´ve been taking from my mother for the past, well, nearly thirty (!) years and it´s the one in which she says how astounded she is, in a negative way, that I´m never really happy-as-in-satisfied by anything and why do I have to seem always so jaded with the world, an accusation to which I´ve always defended myself by chanting the oh-so-omnipresent mantra, “I dunno.”

Jesus, but I think I do know: I think I just want to share that Friday night James Spader joke, okay? It´s not like, too much to ask out of life?

Otherwise hey I´m really just jaded, it´s no crime.
...But I´m not really seeing any feasible alternatives to turning thirty right now and the clock keeps on ticking while on You Tube, Roger Daltrey with Freddy Krueger engage in a drug-induced guitar-playing and singing, saying,

Sally, take my hand
Travel south cross land
Put out the fire
And don't look past my shoulder
The exodus is here
The happy ones are near
Let's get together
Before we get much older