dear betty ford,

workohol. man. i wish i was a workoholic. wouldn't it be great to be helplessly devoted to something that benefits your life in some way? if you're the type of person who is going to end up helplessly devoted to something anyway, it might as well be something beneficial instead of, say, something destructive and embarrassing, or expensive and dumbening, right? i would love to have an insatiable desire to get up in the morning and put everything i have into some task and have that task then go on and reap me rewards such as comfort, pride, security, mobility, positive experience, shiny objects, or untattered clothing. imagine it. instead of working to feed a habit, making a habit of work. it's too bad habits are almost impossible to change once you have one. i guess i wasn't one of the lucky habit folks, now i'm stuck with what i have: a lot of moments i can't remember, a lot of moments i want to forget, chipped teeth, bruised legs, dead eyes, dull hair, a meager bank account, a shitty dangerous neighborhood, worn out everything, crazy friends and a bum for a man. i'd be better off if i were dropped into the wilderness alone where i would be removed from all distractions and forced to make survival my habit. an affirmatively habitual lifestyle might be easy to convert to when it's necessary for survival and, as i imagine it is, survival is so precarious. comfort is my enemy.