I think it was four years ago.  Feels more like twelve. ^{One more week in that city and I'd probably still be there, stuck on the streets.}

^{Enjoying Watermelon On Acid}

Walking.

^{No place to go.}

What does that have to do with Enjoying Watermelon On Acid?

Nothing.

That's just something I made in the present, while thinking about the past.

It's easy to assume things.  There's money in the wallet, so life must be good.

Sometimes I feel like flushing it all down the toilet, producing some art, sharing it here.  Will people vote?  So many around here with shitty attitudes seem to think the only reason people care about my presence here is because of that fucking money.

People voted when I had nothing but a vision to make something out of this.  How does the money make a difference?  I'm still the same guy.

I got somewhere so therefore I don't deserve to go further?  My life is complete?  All I have to do now is shit post and collect auto vote rewards?

That's what some people seem to think.

That makes me think.

^{About things I don't like to talk about.}

Life must be good, right?  I probably ride jetskis all day with three young ladies on the back feeding me grapes off the vine.

I quit my career thing years ago.

I blew my savings on living.  Thousands.  I was living the retired life while most people my age were just starting out or still confused about where to begin.

I was unhappy and bored with life, so I quit the reason why my alarm clock called the shots.

All I did was chill until I got bored again.

Then I became a travelling furnace technician and duct cleaner dude just because a friend offered the job.  That was fun, easy, and all I did was chill.  I didn't have a home, didn't need one.  I lived in hotels that were paid for.  Didn't spend much money, didn't really need it; earned another pile.

After I fucked that job up out of boredom along with the desire to drink and smoke too much, I found myself in a new city.

I didn't plan that move, I just went.  I took my clothes, laptop, pillow, blankets, and a TV because I thought I'd watch it.  I wasn't worried because I was becoming a pro at hitting the reset button then coasting along while I figure everything out on the fly.

The job I was promised didn't exist the moment I arrived.  I planted my foot in the driveway, she said, "Hi! Oh, by the way, that job, it's probably not going to happen."  How convenient.  I had a feeling I fell for a line of bullshit though, so I wasn't upset.

^{I lived in the hood.  See those cops?  That stolen RV turned out to be a meth lab.}

I was supposed to be helping a welder for twenty bucks an hour which I thought was a great way to get started on a new life, again.

At least they found a cheap bed at a garage sale.

^{So that was cool.}

Finding work didn't take long.  Due to my expert negotiating skills, I became the highest paid dishwasher in downtown Edmonton.

Nearly twenty bucks an hour, plus a percentage of the tip pool.

Five star restaurant; a place for the wealthy and celebrity types, plus anyone else willing to spend money.  They fed me gourmet food; gave me huge cups of beer starting at around seven in the evening.  By midnight I'd be standing in front of a skyscraper, waiting for a bus, with a full stomach and intense beer buzz, as I fend off people asking if they could buy a cig for a buck.

It could have been worse.  Most of those folks I worked with did the hard drugs.  I kept to myself, collected my paycheck, tried to save money, went straight home every night.

The people I lived with were unstable, so I didn't buy furniture.  I didn't think it would be wise to buy things I'd need to lug around once they screw me over.

And they did.

^{I saw it coming.}

Then I took a bus home for the holidays.  That was fun.  Arrived back in the city, called up the boss to ask when I'd be working again, he says, "I replaced you."

That pissed me off so I made sure to secure another month's pay severance deal with my expert negotiating skills.  Then I got evicted when the money ran out.

I had forty job applications on the go, and not one call.  Oil crashed and a lot of people lost jobs, so finding one at the time wasn't easy.

I packed my few things, talked to a relative, she let me stay in the spare room.  They started treating me poorly, thought I was there to be a freeloader, and that didn't sit well with me, because I was trying everything to get out of that jam.

I didn't have any money.

^{They wanted me out.}

I'd spend my days walking.

I'd start with a dollar in my pocket, head to the busy street, look for people standing outside of their work, smoking cigarettes.  I knew they'd never accept the dollar when I'd ask to buy a cig for a buck.  First one was always free.  Then I'd convince them to sell me three or four of those cigs for the dollar.  They'd do it just to get rid of me, or to be nice.

I'd continue walking, asking random people for cigs, looking for more marks on smoke break.

As long as I had one lit, I'd be approached by people asking me if they could buy a cig for a buck.  Hopefully they weren't attempting to play the same game as me because the first one was always worth a buck when I was asked.  No freebies.

So that's how I'd make enough money for a breakfast coffee and a muffin.  It didn't take long.  I could easily convert one dollar into four cigs, then four cigs into four dollars, then use one of those dollars to buy four more cigs which I'd sell for a dollar each.  That was my hustle; I always had food, coffee, and cigarettes.

I knew it would work because any time I was downtown with a lit cig, I'd be so annoyed with the amount of people asking me if they could buy a cig for a buck, I felt like wearing a shirt that said, "Sorry, I got no smokes for sale."

I was lucky though.  My clothes were clean.  I was clean.  Nobody suspected I was up to something.

Sometimes I'd hang out by nice cars near a bus stop.  The bus would empty, I'd pretend I lost my change to pay the parking meter, people always helped with a smile.  That backfired a few times though.  They'd hang around and wonder why I'm not putting the coin in the meter.  The cigarette game felt honest.  Asking for money felt dirty.

Finally swallowed my pride.

^{I couldn't live like that forever.  I suspected things would only get worse.}

I had to call my dad.  He had no idea my life was falling apart.  I didn't want him to know.  That was a difficult conversation.  Of course he didn't have a problem putting everything down, driving a thousand miles, picking me up.  I'm glad he did.

So I hit bottom there.  I needed to know what that felt like anyway so I'm glad it happened.  It's interesting how, sometimes, no matter how good you are at figuring shit out, sometimes life just says, "Nope.  I'm in charge."

So, yeah.

^{My life isn't perfect.  Never was.}

I didn't know I'd be losing a couple hundred thousand dollars this year.  I thought I was setting myself up to finally get out of a jam.  I was happy.  I'm still looking forward to it, so that's why I keep working.

I worked hard for what I have here; I'm sick of saying that.  I made the choice to leave it here.  Any of the added perks that come along with owning SP, I deserve.  Even if that means I make more than you when I push the button.  If you want the same thing, do it, it's there for the taking.  If you want to scrape pennies off the floor and talk to your robot friend slot machines, do that and be happy with what you get.  Everyone here is responsible for their own decisions.

It's not my fault some people here with money have it easy.  All of this hate and flak I've been on the receiving end of lately is really starting to snowball into something that is causing some serious stress in my life.  I'm not the villain here just because I have some money in the wallet.  All that money is, is me attempting to better my life.  It doesn't make sense to lump us all into a pile and assume we're all lazy rich fucks looking to be freeloaders.  That shit needs to stop.

I've tried to be as honest as possible with my approach to all of this.  I work hard and don't ask for a damn thing.  I spend more time on this blog than I do anything else in my life.  I care about the place and the people.  Everywhere I look, someone is badmouthing people like me, the ones with money in the wallet.  Would the place be better if everyone was broke?  I don't get it.

Sorry for the ranty random thoughts.  That's what was on my mind.  I could say more, a lot more, but who really cares?  I'll probably wake up tomorrow, browse the feeds, read the comments, and see more people grumbling, pointing fingers, and claiming the reason they can't earn is because of people like me, the ones with the votes that actually put free money beside your posts.

Blah. Whatever.

^{Looks like I ruined another art post again.}

Have a nice day.

Credits:All art and images seen here were produced digitally, by me. ^{"We're all people first.  The wallet means nothing.  Numbers don't tell the whole story."}

^{© 2018 @NoNamesLeftToUse.  All rights reserved.}