once told me that he doesn't want
to work
for money. he's an artist.
a visionary.
a thespian.
it's below
him, to give in to the corporate
world,
to suck up
to the man
for a nine to five
job.
to punch the clock
and get
a weekly paycheck.
of course, his education
is paid for,
mostly by me.
his car, his phone,
his food and shelter
taken care
of by his live in girlfriend,
and his
mother who lives
around the corner,
feeding and clothing
him like he was still a child
in grade school.
why are working,
he asked me?
what's wrong with you dad?
what are you doing
with your life?
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