OK, so a quick disclaimer. I have the evening to myself to write. Earlier today I fantasized about all of the wonderful prose that would come flooding from my fingertips this evening. Then when I sat down to write tonight, I was stumped.
I visited my Twitter cohorts on #justwrite. I wanted to see what the Twitter literati was up to, and I spotted the latest writing prompt. You are suppose to write, no editing, no deleting, just write unapologetically. The prompt this week is “That’s the price of admission…” So here’s my piece. When I’m emotional (happy or sad) I can swear like a truck driver, so, warning. I’m dropping the f* bomb. And for some reason when I read this over, I hear Denis Leary’s voice. OK, without further ado:
That’s the price of admission. It’s the f*cking price. It’s what you pay to have a stake in the game. It’s ridiculous. You have to prove you’re dedicated to your family. The husband, the wife, the kids, the dog, the grandparents, the sister, the brothers, they are all to feel important.
And then there’s the money maker. The thing that puts the bread on the table. The thing that pays for you to burn that bread off your hips. You have to be dedicated to it. When it calls, you have to be there, making it feel important, smiling and cheery even though you really just want to say f*ck it and f*ck you.
But that’s the price of admission. And you wanted to ride. In fact you demanded a seat in the front of the bus. You didn’t inspire a bus boycott, but you still sacrificed time, friends, tears, dignity and love. And you got there. Wherever “there” was. Once you arrived, it wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Actually it was a total sham. It’s like you scrapped together pennies to buy a new car only to see it was a lame ass lemon, a Yugo.
So now what? You’ve forked over your money and, and what? Does your family feel important? Does your work feel important? How about you, do you feel important?
Do you feel important?
Feel important. Get your f*cking money back.