The Downwar'd Spiral

Last week was not a productive week. It was
anti-productive. The full extent of the Telstra debt
was starting to get on my nerves. Cursing my fate I'd
be grumblin' and a-muttering to my self and snapping
incessantly for the full seven days at anyone who'd be
unfortunate enough to be in my path. Like the beggar
on Russel Street who asked me for money.

'Spare some change cuz?'
and I'm, like 'Dude, seriously, don't let the attire
fool you. I'm not that rich.'

(Audience:Oooooooh.Burn! You GO Girl!)

I invested heavily on 'Feathered Mojo' (pictured right) because I liked his name. I now owe a shifty mobster a lot of money

Alright. So the extend of my 'anger' isn't what you'd
call a raging, volcanic fury. It's more on par with a
really spicy pizza loaded with chillies and jalapenos.
I have to think of ways of making money. Not being a
Hilton hotel heiress I have to earn my keep which at
the moment consists of;

a) My wages. Minimum wage (about the same hourly rate
paid in the third world to those happy kids who make
shoes with the 'swish' symbol and go down dangerous
mines to dig out poisonous/ radioactive/ cursed by
evil Spanish pirates type things) times hours spent in
a dank bar minus tab. Usually equals a negative
figure.

b) Tip jar. Currently reads: 'Ninjas killed our
parents. Need tip money to afford Karate lessons and
get Revenge'. Pure genius. Plagiarized from a black
homeless guy via the net. Good for about ten-fifteen
bucks a night. Clear!

c) Mugging people. Also known as 'Surprise Fight
Club'. I am a pacifist but will beat people up for
their money. Good for about twenty bucks....if I win.

d) Gambling. Run doggie run!

So as you can clearly see the only sane thing to do
is to fake my own death. Or pay in installments-
whichever is easier.


Got no rhythm, Got no style,
Fatman