The Trappings

Dearest Mother,

 I couldn’t resist any longer. After learning of the titillating experiences you enjoyed on a near-daily basis over at Goodman-Silversby, I’ve decided to throw in the towel on self-employment and the proverbial chasing of dreams. I have joined the rank and file stables of the subservient masses here in Chicago. I have parceled out pieces of my soul and sold them to the highest bidder – one that offers a decent hourly wage, a cubicle with aggressive, fluorescent overheads, and grey fabric walls woven into tedious patterns that I can stare blankly at as I feel the effects of muscle atrophy and age hyper-accelerating on course toward total decomposition due to lack of exercise and daily inactivity. Not even the hamster wheel has a hamster wheel.

 Copywriting for the Ad Machine (the real Church of Satan) ain’t so bad, though. The confines, while clinically sterile, full of “nomenclature”, and devoid of creative molecules, are no contest for the advantages that come with being placed in a corner cubicle by HR, far from the doldrums of business speak, welcomed with looks of slight amazement and bewilderment (I hope I took the make-up off from last night), and being informed that I am allowed to play in my sandbox of words all day long. The grandest part of it all is whilst playing with words, either in my head, in my notebook, on social media, in emails to you, or strolling about and contemplating the philosophy of written communication in the 21st century, I have the freedom to wander my way downstairs to the 2nd floor of Chicago’s monolithic Merchandise Mart (my sandbox is located on the 5th floor of The Mart) and peruse (read: “gorge on”) all of the fantastic snack and meal options in the on-site bodegas! Yes! And some of them have wine!

 The French embrace afternoon rosé paired with a tasty lunch. It’s a cultural cornerstone for them. I side with the French here, and I think others should follow suit. If there’s one thing that Americans have really come together on in the wake of the recent Paris attacks, it is that France is the undisputed leader in quality of life; they wrote the fucking operating manual on the topic.

 It is my third week here at Ad World-Ad Nauseum. Since I’m still fresh and trying to maintain employment, some restraint has to be exhibited. I shan’t indulge in workplace wine. Yet. This is still America, and drinking during work hours is a cardinal sin. This country prohibited alcohol less than a century ago, remember? It is relieving though, to know that I can access such pleasures without leaving the building, should I really want to take my life into my own hands.

 As I sit here, waiting for the shift bell to ring, before following the herd to the commuter rail, I know that this is temporary. This is an experiment in something new, and a quick run into battle, fighting under the almighty flag of the Greenback Dollar. I am using this circumstance to build discipline in daily writing; pushing myself closer to who I truly want to be: a starving artist heading toward homelessness that burned all bridges leading to the land of Living the Dream.

Your loving son that continues to endure,

 Nicolas

*****

Read the rest of this tangled tale of adulthood and deferred dreams in SN6: MAYDAY ON AMAZON

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