Today I feel disappointed in myself. Why did I write all those books, and why do I continue to write these blog entries? What a foolish thing to do, in a time when almost no one reads for pleasure, even less people read for bafflement, and all signs point to a future that's perfectly illiterate.
For text to matter, people must value the mind. As far as I can tell, people only value the body.
That's OK with me; as I said, I'm only frustrated with myself for spending so much energy on experimental writing. But I don't want to wallow in despair. I'd rather follow the maxim "If you can't beat em, join em." So I should imagine all the possibilities that lie before me...
I could become a beautician. That is my first choice of new life-path. Cutting and styling women's hair. Using a stippling brush to apply foundation makeup, blush, bronzer, powder, and highlighters...
And my second choice of new career would be Forklift Operator — this would please me because I've always wanted to know how to run every type of useful machine, and I assume that learning to pilot a forklift will be like the gateway drug to hardcore construction-work. Eventually I could learn to use a dump truck, and also an excavator and a wheel tractor-scraper. Also a trencher and a loader.
Actually, I want to change my top career-choice: at first I said beautician, but now I think I'd rather be a nurse. That's my new first choice of profession. Cuz I think that it would be satisfying to help people, which is what I assume that nurses do. I could take people's temperature when they have a fever. "One hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit," I'd exclaim; "We need to get you to the emergency room, pronto!" And I could lift people onto a gurney and wheel them around. Then, when the doctor who is scheduled to perform the surgery asks for a scalpel, I'd hand him a scalpel — and, while doing so, I'd smell alcohol on his breath. But I'd hold my peace about this. (Loose lips sink ships.)
I must admit that I'd also enjoy working for the circus. Tho the boss would probably terminate my contract after only a month or two. Cuz I'd most likely be hired to play a clown; but I'd get so angry when I see the cruel way that the elephants are treated that I'd be unable to restrain myself from punching the mahout. And, with my luck (since I forget how strong I become when enraged), this would turn out to be the type of blow that lands precisely on the location of the forehead that can make a person die. So the mahout would collapse in a heap, and I would panic and try to revive him by lightly slapping his face, while the elephant uses her trunk to gush water upon him. And, at this point, the circus boss would enter the tent yelling "Mahout! I'd like a word with you!" Then, when he sees me crouched over the drenched fellow and smacking him, the Boss would roar out: "Bryan Ray, you bad clown! Don't tell me that you've accidentally slain our mahout again! This is the second time in two months! Now YOU'RE FIRED!!! Leave your oversize shoes on my desk." — And I'd forget to take my red nose off, when I mope away from the big top and go slump into a seat at the diner that is nearby; and the waitress who takes my order, when she sees my appearance, will need to summon all of her professional avoirdupois to keep from bursting into laughter.
I'd also like to work with horses or birds, but I'd only like to free them; so, again, I don't think that my employers would appreciate me. If I got a job distributing bags of oats at a horse ranch, they'd find that every horse that I'm ordered to feed escapes. And if I worked in the bird section of a pet shop, all the cages would be found mysteriously empty after my shift; and when the shop's security camera pans upward, it would discover zillions of songbirds congesting the ceiling.
Becoming a floor broker in the New York Stock Exchange is also one of my long-term goals in life. I'd like to feel the thrill of stepping out onto the physical expanse of the market, where all the other brokers are shouting and making trades. I would love to spaz along with the rest of them; I'd soon begin to throw my limbs around, and I'd start to bump into my fellow traders intentionally. I'd shove everyone I could reach, and turn the whole place into a mosh pit: Punk-rock music would begin to blast from a large boombox (which I will have placed upon one of the end tables, after knocking a potted plant off of it), and we'll all commence to dance in a violent manner. Even the Secretary of Commerce and the business executives who are standing at the control panel before the podium that overlooks the trading floor will begin to jump up and down, repeatedly colliding with the chairman who's trying to ring the closing bell. We'd then notice that a concerned woman is standing just outside of the building, using her mobile phone to beg the police for assistance: "Come quick," she cries; "the boys are slamming shoulder to shoulder with abandon!"
I'd also like to start up and run an honest business with a trustworthy friend. My business partner, if I had my choice, would be Count Leo Tolstoy. We together should start up a fruit stand. We shall sell fresh pears, fresh apples, fresh plums, and fresh peaches. And also fresh oranges.
I've always wanted to become a televangelist, too. Whenever I see these preachers who preside over mega-churches, I wonder how much they truly believe in what they're doing. I myself have no desire to swindle folks; so I'd make my mega-church wholly free of charge: no price for admission: and I'd never pass a basket to ask for offerings; I would, in fact, prohibit all tipping and donations. The only reason I'd like to preach to people on TV is that I have so many things to say. (Oh my god, you have no idea how many things I want to say to you.)
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