The Creative Class

Jesus, I'm a mess this morning.  I don't want to look in the mirror.  I was in bed last night when there was a knock on the door.  The tenant was bringing the rent check.  Sat and chatted for awhile about practical things and drank whiskey.  When she left, it was 12:30.  I had skipped the gym that day having felt punky with whatever shit has been making the rounds, so I took two Aleve PM tablets and fell asleep.  I didn't get out of bed until long after sunrise.  I'm on my third cup of coffee and am still numb.  I don't know how I will function at work today.  I think of all the stuff Q says he takes to sleep and wonder.  I am certain I would be dead.

And so in the sovereign state of Catatonia, I sit at the computer trying to comprehend the news.  The Marshall Islands are disappearing.  Both CNN and the New York Times say so (link) (link).  Scientists accept that as they do any death.  Both CNN and the New York Times say so.

But the only thing that really speaks to me this morning is this (link).  I want to go.  The author refers to the Creative Class.  I like that and the Bobos and Dandies that drive the economy there.  I declare that I am a member of The Creative Class.

My brain is sending muddled signals to my body that we must shower, must get to work for self-preservation.  There is a revolution by the body against this minor rant, but I think we can all come to some accord.  A shower might bring us all together again as long as I don't peak in the mirror.  Things could fall apart at the first vision of that decadence.  It would only take one phone call to be back in bed.

Holy smokes, I must move.  I am 4th and long gone.