Looking Glass Lennon: The Money Monster

I cannot hate myself enough.

Lately, I've been wandering the streets in the evening dark, sliding between shadows, in search of the unknown. A reckoning is coming - for one and all. To speak this is forbidden, of course.

I spied some hot chicks pouring out of a car into this hidden upscale residence in the arts district. I decided to take a peek inside when I got invited in. When something bad happens to a famous person, they say, "Do you know who I am?" But when something good happens to me is when I say it.

But I did not say it out loud - this time.

Everyone was so alive at that party! I withered into nothingness and failuredom. God help me someone asks me my job. 'Car mechanic' cannot be a popular occupation in this Richie Rich crowd - hell, it's not even popular with me. I got me long hair so I planned to claim poet status were I so inquisitioned.

As I drank and got into the vibe, the sight of so many hot legs drove me insane. If only I had fame not shame! One particularly sultry girl brought me to my knees. Catching her alone, I struck up the oddest of conversation that ended with me asking her to flick her cigarette ashes in my mouth. I wanted to please her like no other had.

She obliged.

Her amusement fulfilled and my infamy cemented, I departed, returning to the empty void of the streets.

I just can't do it anymore. The Money Monster has defeated me. It seems silly to say so, but I require huge amounts of cash in order to live. It's a need like water or air. I beat myself up to keep my crap job. I beat myself up over having a crap job. Then I beat myself up when I meet hot women. But what to do?

Only here where no one can hear can I admit what I fear: there's no place for me in this world. And whatever commentary that makes on me and/or the world, so be it. I was put here for no reason. No one is in my tree because I see who people are when they're not lying. At the end of the day, all I know is I've got to be free.

I'm left to wonder and blunder who I'd be with love. Every fiber of my being believes I'd be somebody with something to say. But, of course, everyone tells themselves what they wish to hear. What possible proof can I offer? My "Walrus" poem from Alice In Wonderland?

I am utterly useless. I spent Sunday on an anonymous park bench, waiting for the sky. The plants swaying in the breeze, the birds chirping in the air, the dream of Nature oblivious to Man - none of these acknowledged my state under the warm Spring sun. "I'm dying on a beautiful day," I remember whispering to myself in the midst of circling horror.