Door number one: stay in the industry.
It is comfortable, I know my shit, I am (somehow) a rock star.
But, God damn, all these years.

Door number two: is it open yet?

Door number three: write.

Can I reach doors one and three at the same time?

What's behind door number two? The window is still foggy.

Searching.
Thinking.
Pondering.

the stock market is so wack.
I earned five bucks a share by doing nothing at all.

the option to buy these shares is part of my compensation for working,
but everything above that...wack.

have I mentioned the wack?
I could buy a nice mac with the wack.
I could OD on smack with the wack.
I could get a gold plaque that will hang from a tack with the wack.

I could write silly seussian rhymes,
open bottles of rare dusty wines,
use forks with gaussian tines,
or maybe saving for a while will be fine.

every week I can look at the balance,
gaze amused at my wack-infused total,
sit quietly in my rented palace,
buy things based on reviews anecdotal.

and though I haven't yet had my coffee
the wack dreams and wack words that I'm spewin'
have a calming effect
that I hope will inject
fiscal sanity into whatever I'm doin'
with this wack ass money.