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bumming with a feather
i wrote an essay some time ago and sent it to a newspaper.
it was inspired by a 'friend' who was a bum. he's 27,
doesn't have a job, doesn't have an income, asks for
allowance from his parents and spends like there's no
tomorrow. he doesn't have a job not because there are no
jobs available, but because he's too lazy to look for one.
by the way, i'm 17 years old. not twenty-two and a half.
Wonder how it would feel to wake up one day with a
brilliant flash of orange. Orange that would slowly turn
into red, into yellow, into gentle rays beating against the
windowpane…wonder how it would feel to wake up before the
I know how it feels to wake up after the sun does. It’s
lonely and gloomy. Did I mention boring? Yes, it’s boring
too. You stretch out your hands and yawn; open your eyes
against the sunlight, and you wonder what the heck you are
supposed to do today. The life of a bum indeed.
I’ve been a bum ever since I was twenty-two. I’m twenty-two
and a half now and believe me, being a bum is anything but
fun. Sure it’s fun at the start. I mean, you get to go to
all those parties, hang out with all your friends and
stuff, but in the end, you’ll realize that all your friends
don’t have time for parties anymore. They’re too busy in
their offices, their grocery stores, or their fast food
chains. They’re too busy working and making money.
And so you’re stuck at home with no one to talk to and
nothing to do.
I wonder how it would feel to wake up early in the morning,
wishing that you didn’t have to go anywhere, but you trudge
along to the bathroom and get into your working outfit and
head to the office. I wonder how it would feel to dread
seeing an officemate, or seeing your boss for that matter.
I wonder how it would feel to complain about this certain
screw-up that your partner did but the blame landed on you.
And so you scream at your partner, strangle him, and hang
him upside-down from a tree. Ah, the things that work does
to a man.
My days consist of nothing but sleeping, eating TV dinner,
sitting in front of the TV, and fixing the TV whenever it’s
broken. Sometimes I head out to the streets and look for
other bums. They usually head to nightclubs and watch girls
dance naked, or they go to bars and get drunk, or they go
to raves and get free ecstasy. Sometimes I join them, but
most of the times I don’t. I’ll only be wasting my money,
precious money that is becoming scarcer by the minute.
I tried to look for a job, but no one would take an
undergraduate for a secretarial job or anything. Heck, even
fast food chains won’t accept me since I can’t cook, I’m
not friendly with people, and I can’t clean up after messy
people who spilled ketchup all over the table. I tried to
go the grocery stores and applied for a job as a cashier
but they said they didn’t need another lousy cashier. What
they need is money and does getting another lousy cashier
get them money? I left at once.
So basically, I’m destined to be a bum. All I do now is
sleep, wake up, sleep, wake up and every once in a while
call up mom and dad and ask for money. If I can’t get them
to give me money, I write to newspapers and see if they’ll
publish my writings. Then I’ll get a couple of thousand
bucks and that would last me for two weeks. Hmm…come to
think of it, maybe I’m not a bum but a writer. An artist.
Artists get to make money after they die. And writers are
artists aren’t they? So maybe I can make money after I die.
Thank God. Then I wouldn’t be so useless after all. I can
wow the world with my writings; perhaps publish a book,
which would only become famous after my demise. But what
the heck, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it.