No more work!

I am on strike.

I have very little desire to grade papers, teach, or prepare food. Instead, I want to do the following:

1. Nothing
2. Sleep
3. Toss and turn
4. Write a bit
5. Have a drink or ten
6. More nothing
7. Take a long aimless walk until I'm sick and tired of walking and my feet can't carry me any further
8. Sleep
9. More tossing and turning
10. More Drinking
11. More writing
12. Pacing
13. Pick up a nasty habit

But under no condition do I want to work. Oh, the kids I teach are fine and all that. That's not the problem, but where is the time for me? That's what I want to know. And I've been sick for nearly over a year, and hopefully if the doctor is right I'm all better now and can have a life and maybe even a sexlife.

I correspond with a guy online. But he lives in Brooklyn! Oh, he seems so clever, and flattering (and I love being flattered), and he loves the way I write (which I love), and intelligent, but not stuck up the way intellectuals can be. And I imagine myself not so much with him (I'm not in love with him, per se), but with someone like him, and how wonderful it might be.

Right now I'd like to live in Berlin. So does he. I could imagine ourselves (or someone like him and me) at the cafes, chatting over coffee, doing whatever it is that Berliners find themselves doing, and I don't know... not working. We wouldn't work. Just sex and cafes and the city and maybe some writing or something like that. But no work. I'm fed up with it.

I want money with no strings attached. I want to be an aristocrat. I'd like to teach, but only for pleasure. Not for pay. And not so many classes, please. And I want to write some more. It drives me nuts when I'm not being creative. I feel so pent up. So bloody annoying. My system shuts down. It's horrible.

Oh, I feel so pathetic when I compare myself to factory workers in sweatshops who do this day in and day out. How do they do it? How can they do it? I can't keep a regular job without complaining.