Sublimation

I had my psyche totally devastated today because I spent $1.16 on 4 cups of ice. People around me were not sympathetic, even though I am down to my last 5 dollars and won't have money for 3 more days, if at all. I don't want to ask for help, though I need all the help I can get, because White people never want to help unless they can make you feel bad about being in a dire situation, and the Black people who care have already helped me. This situation calls for an extreme level of sublimation! It's really my favorite thing: rather than mindlessly destroy something, or hurt myself, or just scream vulgarities at whoever I pass by, I can use the power of sublimation to create some new wonder out of all my misery. It is an amazing thing that more highly developed Killer Apes use to retain sanity when all around them seems to be collapsing, and is responsible for many great works of art. As long as I don't dwell on how worthless art is, this level of agony should produce a masterpiece. Maybe I will have it laying on my chest when I die in the street like a dog, and someone of grace and compassion will see it and know how wonderful it is. Yes, many great creative forces die unloved in their time, and posterity props them up so that future generations can marvel at how wonderful that worthless nut was. Vincent van Gogh, Emily Dickinson, and me, all discovered after it was too late to do them any good, for perhaps if we had been discovered we'd have done what Rossini did after a visit to Beethoven. Rossini saw what terrible shape Ludwig van was in, and said to himself, "Mama mia, if that's what composing does to you, I'll give it up and become an epicurian." Luckily, he could afford to, and lacked the obsessive personality required to make sublimation a necessity. I'm not saying that all is lost, and I will die unknown like Emily D, only to be acclaimed after my body has been shot out of a cannon into the Pacific Ocean, but I am getting desperate. There must be some way I can end this cycle of misery and creation and have enough to live a life of ease. If I don't find it soon, I will scream. And who will care about the pain expressed? No one has ever really cared how I feel, since I was the weird kid, who grew up to become the deeply disturbed man typing these words today. That bleak conclusion calls for extra-strength sublimating, because soon I just might quit talking altogether. I like talking; it would be a shame to stop when I am still capable of producing sound. But if no listens why bother? If only I had remained an alcoholic....now those drunkards could really sublimate.