Broken Back

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It's 'only' a flesh wound because it's my flesh

I'm typing with one hand today because a series of horrible decisions brought me to the edge of disaster. I've been living in the parking lot of the day labor hall, mostly to use their bathroom and water spout. But sometimes they have work for me and that's when the trouble starts. I've been roped into moving furniture before but this time was the pits. $7/hr for repeatedly doing 160 lb bench presses for 12 hours. I know why people go to the gym...because they are lazy fucking assholes who hire other people to exert themselves in context of purpose.
Nevermind, the service workers of America think they're living the high life but I know deep in my heart that it's all wrong. Service work, blowing leaves and cutting grass, painting walls, patching ceilings, etc. is most abhorrent. Throw furniture moving into the mix as sweaty men travel 70 miles with precious Vietnamese office hutches for people who don't even move their cars out of the way but sit in air conditioned silence of overdecorated homes. Who needs two dining rooms? AH, I'm a reverse snob but then I'm not the one who paid them $7 to come sweep the chiggers and fleas from the carpet of my van. The reason I would not do that is because the rug is my responsibility. I do not think someone else should cut my lawn or apply paint to my walls. THAT'S A BULLSHIT AND BLIGHTED WORLDVIEW. I wanted to burn the $50 check in principle but instead I bought $50 worth of inane and frivolous percussion instruments for my drum circle project in drug punished Mexico. At least the money all went back to Vietnam and China! Ha! But I can't play them as my fingers are fringed with torn flesh. Hahaha, Oggy is the asshole. I'll starve before I use service work as my survival.