oh my dear sweet god

Back in the knife-sharp clutches of this abysmal joke of a day job. A few minutes in and I knew I was in trouble as my supervisor, who shall remain unnamed lest she one day stumble across this site, is using a cane today because this weekend she slipped and fell onto "the concrete ribbon of sidewalk that they never maintain" at her condominium. She didn't add the part about how she's on muscle relaxers and how that was probably the main contributing factor to her errant foot-fall. It is only Monday and I am in a hellish dungeon, a circle of hell that no one can know with the intensity that I do. This will sound extreme to some ears but let me announce it anyways, as it is a firm belief: The Artist should not have a day job. Let me say that again, lest your eye drift past that and on to other things: The Artist should not have a day job. The reason for this is thusly: The Artist already has a job, and that is presenting his gifts to the world in whatever form, in my case a sonic form. Others paint, some dance, some write, some act, whatever. The point I am summoning is that to create is a job; to reach into one's own nether-regions and extract a chunk of art is no small feat. It is, in fact, a feat of epic proportions. Am I really meant to sit here and endure mundane tales and insights from my co-workers? Am I really meant to sit here and "access/input data in the database?"! It is practically a felony crime to have one who creates stuck in an environment where he cannot create. (In fact he can hardly even get onto the internet because his supervisor keeps hovering and clucking nearby). Some things in this world are ephemeral and girded with starlight and moonbeam. This is the realm where I aim to hover.