Saturday, 3 January 2015

Virgin on the absurd, teetering his ridickulous

He texted and said he was, "on root".

I drew back a picture of a stick-man standing on a tree root.

He texted back to say, "sorry, on route."

I didn't bother trying to correct him again. I was 30. The world no longer cared about me and I no longer cared about the world. Life was dull. I was dull. The world didn't need 30 year olds to be cheeky. The world needed 30 year olds to get on with it and do their duty. Consume, pay taxes, work, provide for their families, subsidize the welfare system - the system keeping the dirty artistic 'geniuses' from scraping their stomachs off the floor. They get to play all day, shitting out dubious pieces with no artistic merit, whilst I slave away with morons who say "on root". Where's the justice?

Why do they use the word "works", "artworks", "work of art" etc. It implies there's work involved. Work is work, and creating is not. Especially when it involves creating necklaces out of dried clumps of poo and selling it on Etsy. It comes straight from her butt, Son. Straight from her butt.

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