Wardrobe consultants, Colourist, Hair Consultant.... those are the poor choices that I have been exposed to this week. Three days on the bus, three different woman with children who are under 25, who are not making it. One of the interesting things about Americans is that they like to talk, whereas the English cling to their privacy.
I have never felt that I owed anyone a thing, nor have I expected to be owed something. Those 3 women are the best argument against democracy that I've met recently. They want what I have, but they do not want to work for it, and they are unable to understand that their choices have put them where they are.
It reminds me of a line from Trainspotting.
Rent-boy: Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
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