homeless again, naturally
worked from 9 am to 11:15 am, when my boss, farmer chris, stopped the tractor he was driving to interrupt my weeding of his carrots. “i don’t want you weeding with that hoe” he said, in his typical stressed, rushed nature. “just pull the big stuff. we have a lot to do. just get it unshaded and then we’ll come back for the low stuff.” then he turned around and walked away.
a few minutes later, his mom, arlene, walked past, and said, “good morning.” I almost exploded, ready to scream, “no, it isn’t that at all” but I looked up to see who it was first, and bit my tongue. that lady has been very kind to me. I finished, sloppily, as he had instructed me to do, and walked over to him and quit. this has been a particularly difficult thing for me to do, being that I also live on the property, in a mobile home. so, wanting to know, I asked, “how soon do you need me off your property.” he said, “you can leave now if you want to, tyler. that’s up to you.” I did an about-face, and left. I walked past my manager first, to at least tell him, and apologize. yes, he’s been the source of some stress there, but not to the extent that the boss has. I told him I quit, apologized. He said, “come give me a hug.” I started crying again, and he finished his sentence, “you lucky son-of-a-bitch.” I looked up at his face, drenched in sweat. it was hot. ironically, I had found comfort, in weeding carrots, earlier. working on my hands and knees in the organic mud, water evaporation and neighboring row shade providing as much comfort as I was going to find. I don’t mind farming. I rather enjoy it, actually. I just can’t exist in an environment where a boss is going to interrupt me, working for them, and make me feel shitty because he has too much to do. there were much bigger issues to discuss, but he refuses negotiations. as a rule. all of the fucking bosses do. owners. fucking capitalists are retarded abusive assholes.
uh oh. yup, put the retarded homeless idiot back on the street on a moment’s notice. you have people you can call, dickhead. nothing here is so time-critical as to make the environment so shitty. YOU CAN’T VERBALLY WHIP PEOPLE AND EXPECT THEM TO HAVE ANY RESPECT FOR YOU, DESPITE THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE ENOUGH MORE CASH THAN THEM TO PAY THEM TO WORK FOR YOU. that was it, the final straw. I couldn’t, in good conscience, put my labors into enriching this guy. we have to find a place to live. why are we wasting time on this. calm, you. we live anywhere. everyone hates us, we’ll be in jail by the end of the week for trying to sleep on the side of the road. haha, right. we’ll spend the nights at 24 hour restaurants, and sleep in parks during the day. that sounds miserable. LIKE I’M NOT TOTALLY CONDITIONED TO MISERABLE. good point.
I do not wish to initiate an type of proceedings against my old boss, so there is no incentive for you to take my case. or, by definition, therefore, I don’t have “a case.”
dear other farmers:
I do not wish to work for you. I don’t have the energy/participants/desire to cultivate any of your soil by myself, but I could use a place to stay. if you have that, send your proposal, in writing, to firstname.lastname@example.org
TO BE QUITE HONEST, I DON’T WANT TO BE ANYWHERE NEAR THE RETARDED ASSHOLES I’VE MET THUS FAR IN MY LIFE. NOT A SINGLE ON OF THEM CAN GET PAST THE HIERARCHICAL BULLSHIT SOCIETY TO WHICH THEY WERE PROGRAMMED. EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU CAN FUCK OFF AND DIE. oh, that’s helpful. I figured it would be, thanks.
check your head is as calming as grindcore, somehow. odd.
“you should sleep late, man. it’s just much easier on your constitution.”
every time I think about talking to someone, my brain jumps ten steps ahead. we don’t need a place to park. we’re staying on the farm until we get our last paycheck. that is tuesday. until then? we should move it before then. where? we don’t feel safe anywhere. bullshit. oh, great. now we’re not even listening to ourselves. how do you stay at a place for so long and claim to not be comfortable or safe there? how long? what does that matter? that I can tolerate abuse for short periods of time means that I must endure it constantly, forever? this is planet retard slave, jerk. true dat. people suck. the good ones do. touche.
sodomy rape analogies aside, we don’t have to endure that job ever again. you can’t imagine the sigh of relief, unless you yourself have gotten out of an abusive household, abusive job, or a town which refused to acknowledge you as a human, as evidenced by attempted discussions with every single person. “that’s a good idea. I don’t have too much time to contribute, but how would we go about initiating something like that?” no. “maybe that would work somewhere more progressive” translates to, “i am a shortsighted asshole who is horribly addicted to this slavish capitalist existence” or “my property enjoys being either not used or being covered with poisons in a rushed panic, because that’s the only way that growing food can be profitable.”
I just saw earl doppelgänger. trippy. said hi. definitely not her. had to check. she said, “have a good day, sir.” thanks, ma’am.
so, the list of people to ask for help:
dead end. no.
ex “gf.” no.
last employer/landlord. no.
one before that. no.
facebook: already asked, useless
twitter: *asks every single day*
couch surfing? interesting. haven’t we tried that? no. you’re too chicken to talk to strangers, AAnd, you’re too paranoid to talk to those who know you. where does that leave me? that law firm. seriously? what options do we have?
so, who isn’t going to chastize me for quitting this job? I dunno, people who have quit jobs before? that was a rhetorical question. then don’t put it in front of me. ok.
what more is there to say, really? part of me thinks I should type, but when I sit down to type, nothing but this shit. we should be making contracts for the cooperative. ooh, how would that go?
human relationship contract:
check the following that apply
I enjoy your individual company most to all of the time.
I enjoy your company with chaperones.
I enjoy working with you and would trust you to take part in a business arrangement.
I am constantly horned up by you no matter what you do.
EVERYONE I KNOW IS A HEARTLESS MOCKING RETARD. takes one to know one. this is because I don’t contribute to charity, isn’t it. or, I don’t go subjugate myself before a charitable organization that helps terrified, genderless idiots. you’re not terrified, jerkoff. you have unique needs which haven’t been fulfilled. ever. is that so. I don’t know.
there is no assistance in anyone I have associated with in the past. ok. branch out. *panic* and here, we reach the crux of the problem. oh, I chose this disorder, huh. go to state counseling and get prescribed a mind-number that will make u fat and not horny any more and get a job where you can plop your ever-widening ass on a wheeled chair in a cubicle and pound on a keyboard for hours at a time. no thanks. ok, sit around crying until your last paycheck, then head south. destination: unknown