Hardly Successful
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My dad used to say that you have to work for everything you get in this life. He liked working hard, though, and I took after him in that way. My body likes vigorous exercise, and my brain responds well to a mental challenge, such as phrasing thoughts into rhyming verses, or decrypting a javascript puzzle, or devising a good, effective comedy sketch. My music and my poetry and my comedy are all the result of my effort, which far exceeds the efforts of those countless cheap imitators who've been taking credit for it in the last twenty-two years or so - and getting you all to pay and love them for their lies. I could have had a far more comfortable life by simply 'going with the flow' of my middle-class peers, getting a good job and getting married, etc, but that would have been too easy. I wanted to be an artist; not just any artist, but an immortal artist. This I have achieved. You may think it's up to you all to make me immortal, but you'd be wrong. It is up to me to make myself immortal because only I can know if I remain in possession of my immortal soul, especially after having written and shared so many commercially successful things. No one else can know that for sure. You're just going to have to take my word for it. To gain your admiration on the TV and radio would have cost me my soul, but I steered clear of this danger. All that crowd thrilling attention they were showering on me only would have made me suspicious, at least if I'd have clearly known about it. As it turns out, broadcasters really wanted to make me the least among all the countless stars who stole my songs and blogs. They wanted to crush me with my own music and comedy, and to get me to endorse their crimes with my work for them in front of their wicked, lying cameras. Instead I chose a path that sacrificed my guaranteed worldwide acceptance as an artist and a poet, in order to incarcerate and punish as many of their guilty stars as I could. You see? It would have been far easier to let them keep what they took from me and accept their invitation into the limelight, but I care too much for my immortal soul. It's none of your business where my money comes from, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I still receive a pretty generous top-up from the Ministry of Poverty Reduction. As far as I'm concerned, I earn every penny of it in my hard job. These lazy stars of yours seem to think it's some sort of disgrace to have a real job. They want you to think it's some sort of punishment for me, but I volunteered for it. Few people on disability could get and keep a job like mine. They lack the skills, strength, and, above all, the attitude. But that's what happens when you force an able-bodied, hard working artist like myself onto the disability program by destroying his reputation so that rich stars can cash in all his hard work on TV. When I got this job, I tried to get the ministry to close my file. I wanted to try standing on my own two feet again, but they said they had to keep giving me money. So now I bet I'm one of the highest paid order pickers in the country. And I must visit the welfare office every month to submit my paystubs and fill out a card. That's why I still get stuck in that God forsaken queue. I'm not there to get money from them, but to report my employment earnings. It was all their idea, but what lies have you been hearing to explain it behind my back? The evil illusions that were cast with my thoughts shared here in the hands of televised frauds were the wicked work of others, but it fell upon me, their innocent victim, to smash these illusions. Rather than being rewarded with pleasure for my work, I ended up with an even harder job. Over the years, my inadvertent reconstructions of past posts that ended up on TV has swollen to a few thousand pages. As the burden grew with new names and titles in my offenders list, the guilty media compensated by pushing the event further into the past - where it appears smaller, of course. By the way, have you ever counted all the names on the credits of a feature film like, say, Austin Powers or Mean Girls? A whole army I must face alone, and over a mere fraction of my property. Big job. Having hopefully proven my point (that I respond well to a difficult challenge) I meant to say I had another vision. It was about this super-rich nerd named Phil who was absolutely terrified of dying - so terrified that he ordered everyone in the population to keep their germs behind a surgical mask. Anyway, this guy dies and finds himself trapped in the xenite mines of Adana. Knowing xenite is poisonous, he puts a cloth over his nose and mouth and claws his way back into daylight. On the surface he is overwhelmed by the majestic sight of Stratos, a city built entirely on clouds. He knows it's where he belongs, but he can't find the elevator. He looks and looks but it is nowhere in sight. Is it over in that cave? Is it behind that tree? Where's the elevator? |
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| © 2021. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. |
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