What am I looking for?

What am I looking for? The perennial crux that challenges every human being. I stare at it now like a wasted freshman sizing up his next failure in life lessons. I know what I want, but it's nothing within reason. They never really tell us to be reasonable until our early twenties, and then we pull back the curtain to see our nightmare. If I had a niche or a child or anything tangible I'm sure I could find purpose. All I have, though, is memories and they equal dick in the real world.

I've seen a hundred movies about some fucko wandering the terrain, working odd jobs and searching for his calling. But how am I to relate when the ending is always happy? I mean, even when the protagonist dies, it was for something honorable. The main character apparently sweats it out all day between the margins of what the movie shows, because the movie wouldn't show something boring. But they always end up with a magically beautiful answer. The dream job, the dream girl, or anything that is the farthest away from how life really works. Two hours sobbing through sludge to step out into a parking lot of nobodies who aren't happy and will never get to do what they dream. Tell me, what's noble about working sales for five days, fifty-five hours a week and coming home to the massive void that is loneliness? If I die tomorrow, the schmucks looking in my casket and buying me bad flowers really don't have much to say except, "he was always nice", "he was so funny", or "his personality made up for dick".

I refuse to look at it like destiny. There are too many fucking people on this globe and not enough crises to accomplish. Fate is man-made like religion and Fruit Rollups. I am not here to man one of the six billion decrees someone or something dreamed up. This isn't Touched By An Angel. It's not even Quantum Leap. I'm no better than the kid scooping my ice cream or the woman commanding the multinational corporation down the street. Or am I? You might say the kid curling out frozen sugar is content because the prom queen is blowing him. Or you might instead tell me that the CEO has a twenty bedroom house and a car outweighing my net worth. Which leads me to my next point.

The new message in America is "do what makes you happy". Well, to do that you need money. That's it, folks. You need enough money to not have to shovel other people's shit. Then you can pursue whatever the fuck you want. So maybe, therein lies the answer. I'm looking for money. With a extreme financial lead I could live an existence based on my ordinance. Only in the unfairest of worlds can trash like Paris Hilton drunkenly meander the city, breasts accidentally ablaze, leading television shows and cutting shitty pop songs. Meanwhile, I'm surrounded in talented, benevolent humans pushing a heavy pencil daily so that they can spend one week a year occupying a suite in the Bahamas Paris wouldn't even shit in. Why, because they drew the wrong straw?

I'm not trying to assume a life I didn't earn, I merely wish to highlight the flaw in our society the pushes one of us over the other through luck. Bitterness is irrelevant; it's the idea that what I'm looking for is not what I need, it's what is available. It's what I can afford and will bring me more happiness than the rest of the possibilities could. Right?

Great. Sounds good. While I'm at work tomorrow I'll remember the douches enjoying the cash I deposit from my till. I'll imagine their genetically engineered kids studying in good schools and doing the good blow off of stripper asses. I'll fantasize about their trophy wife and how she whines at five o'clock socials with the girls about how her gift basket venture is so tiring in its intricacies. And after I whack off to the imagined trophy wife in the work bathroom, I'll pull some paper towel from the dispenser which was recently refreshed by the mother of the stripper whom the rich kid is doing blow off of. I'll return to my seat and retain my role as a cog in the machine, where in between customers, I'll try and figure out what else I'm looking for.