One fish, two fish, red fish, yellow fish. There isn't a single blue fish, and the Doctor would be upset. But when one fish becomes one thousand fish, and that thousand becomes two, and the red fish start to mix with the yellow fish, who could even care?
Wrap the the thumb with two band aids, trust the acetametaphin and ibuprophen, then cut. Stand on the line, stand and ponder eternity, or time, space or even breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Deluxe. But what is breakfast when the first meal of the day is at midnight and its something like tacos?
Cut one fish, two fish, three hours and five hundred fish have miraculously gone past with two fresh slices taken away from each.
Ponder that sleep deprivation, I know I am as I write this. Think about those around you, critique their cuts as your immortalize your own. "My cut is so grand, his is shit on the bottom of a horseshoe." Watch as they correct the cut you made. Oh, humility. My dad mentioned something about that when we sat about the breakfast table in high school. Tacos for breakfast today/tonight/whenever. Tacos for breakfast/dinner/lunch/whatever.
Think of those plans you made. Better yet, think of the plans your planning when you get this massive paycheck they mentioned. Feel that sudden rush. Cut one fish, two fish, three fish consecutively. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants to cut more, let him have a few. Cut two more then give him one. Five minutes later, tucker out, give him twelve in a row. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants you to cut more, let him have a rest.
This is the front line, the line we've no option but to hold, and no one told us to do so except for the natural condition... hive-mind. The bug-condition I call it. Industrialization at its best. Like some early Ford factory, a bunch of migrant workers from various places coming together for one common goal. Management says the fish. We wee folk say the moola. Is the use of my left hand an accountable sacrifice
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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