Well,
some of you have been around here for a while and may well have
picked up on the fact that I dress to the left politically. (Was
it my advocacy of communism, or the fact that I don't suggest
burning everyone who doesn't have a [insert symbol of capitalist
oppression over the workers here] that drew you to that
conclusion?) And I make no bones about my motives for reminding
you I dress to the left: I'm gonna do same old same old stuff,
but when you turn round and say "oh that's just same old
same old stuff" I can tell you that I already knew that, and
I was the one that told you. I can maintain my position at the
top of the step ladder, looking down on the merry few who choose
to allow themselves to be on lower rungs, and remain blinkered
with me to other ladders, trees, buildings - high and otherwise
-, tall fences, very high jumping, a lost elephant and a
basketball player in platform shoes. All that's an introduction
without actually bringing into your mind the slightest
inclination as to what is to follow/So? Well then dear dead
readers, what comes next is a series of overtly loquacious
ummm...words, and a couple of puns about how I dislike money. (On
reading back, I find I have omitted puns. Sorry. Blame it on the
boogie).
Whenever
I deal with money I always feel so cheap and disgusting,
degraded, dirty, smelly, unwashed, unbrushed, unloved, impotent.
Whenever I deal with money I am left wondering exactly what I've
done to deserve these smooth or crumpled bits of paper, or that
one piece of folded paper with my name, a number, (a rank?), and
another name. All I ever do is sit. People pay for sitting? So
then I'm just embarrassed about my lack of worth and people's
misconception of this? No, I think not. I refuse to allow myself
to be another whiny teenage (not in the literal 13-19, or the
illiteral 13-16/17, but in the context of whiny teenage bitch)
bitch. Or is this just reverse psychology and I call on you
and/or others to rally round and tell me how wonderful and
special I am? That is a question that must hang in the air like
an air-hangy thing, with an "I'm in another pissy mood this
morning" attached to it like a cancerous lump on the face of
our much-maligned world leader.
Ultimately
I'm basing my dislike of money on Monopolytm. There are two
versions of Monopolytm that I like, neither of which I've played.
The first will get you in trouble in most places if you follow
the suggestions of a fun game for all the family from ages 8-80:
start with less money (it's better already) and clothes also have
a monetary value. So there's that. Nudity and paper cuts. The
next version is the relevant one (we live in a world when nudity
is sometimes irrelevant? Say it ain't so, Joe). El monopolytmia
de communista. Property is theft. The state does everyone a
favour by being the thief, thus not shattering what little karma
the little people have managed to scrimp and save. Everyone has a
little amount of money to cover sundry expenses like
drink-driving charges, and may make a few extra kopecks here and
there in crossword and beauty contests. Other than that, you just
roll the dice, move round, live life, be, and enjoy the company
of friends and family, including your naked eight year old niece
who thought you were playing the other version. Everyone wins,
except the karmically-fucked state, who manages to escape prison
somehow; no-one loses except for the ethereal entity that is the
state, and to a lesser extent its worldly messenger the bank, who
has more money than anyone else for some reason. Perhaps there is
more to life than this, but in the capitalist countries, they
don't have it any better. The rich get rich, the poor are forced
to stay in hotels where a nights sleep is ten times the average
wage.
Is
that the kind of society we want? Then again, isn't the communist
version just same old same old: living life over and over again
in meaningless cycles that roar past, with only a random turn of
the card to make life change, slightly better or slightly worse?
It sounds glib and flippant, but I'll say it anyway: why
shouldn't the £30 note I dreamt about last night be an item of
clothing instead? It'd mean dreaming about £270 and a
long-sleeved t-shirt that shows off nipples so well. If I could
choose my dreams, or if I could choose my reality, green £30
notes would be clothes. It means nothing to you, perhaps, but
work with the idea and you may put your own tint on to it. (It
doesn't mean I want to buy a stripper: I told you I hate money.
Strippers cost money. Hey sewer rat may cost like pumpkin pie,
but I'd never know cos I wouldn't watch the filthy motherfuckers
get naked).