The Old Wart-faced Alcoholic Genius

There are very few humans in this world. The rest are robots.
Get up. Drink coffee. Get dressed. Go to work. Drink Coffee. Work. Eat lunch fast. Work. Get shouted at. Drink coffee and some pills. Work harder. Go back home. Eat dinner very slowly. Too tired to fuck. Set the alarm. Go to sleep. Repeat.
All you get in return is green - coloured paper. Paper so amazingly valuable people lie, betray, torture and kill for it.
I love that old wart-faced alcoholic. I love him. A guy who sees through the system, understands that its fucked-up and yet doesn't try to change it. He disrespects it. He spits on it.
We labour for pieces of paper. Our lives are controlled by paper. Paper which killed thousands and continue to do so everyday. The robots whole existence depends upon this paper. Take out the paper...and what are you working for? Ironically, even I am studying to be a robot. Ill almost certainly end up as one. Ill try not to, but its tough to be old, wart-faced and hungover and I know Ill fail. So while I'm still not a robot, allow me to make fun of them.
The old wart-faced alcoholic was smart. He lived a bum all his life doing menial jobs, like in Factotum. He stayed as long as he liked the job or as long as it gave him his share of alcohol. Then he left. He earned enough to have a place to sleep, eat and drink. When he grew old and his drinking got the better of him, he decided to write a book about how insignificant that paper is, and he made lots of it. He died, richer than before, but not rich enough. However, he died a hero. The old wart-faced alcoholic is a genius. A true genius. He drank, slept, ate, fucked and thought. Thank you for existing human.