What kind of sick bastard would do that? Out of focus pictures weren’t cool in the 90’s and they sure as hell aren’t now. Especially when they remind me of my situation. Being in “No Man’s Land” at the ripe age of 27, roller coaster freelance action, and a somewhat disheveled love life. Whoopty fuckin’ doo. Mind you, I’ve only been this old for a little less than a month, so bitching and moaning might be premature. Or right on time, I don’t know. All I know is that sanity is a very limited resource for me these days. I almost miss being back at my dead end job. Almost. But that paycheck couldn’t distract me from the misery any longer.
Money is a tool, a universal tool, but a tool nonetheless. I believe it was then I realized that money cannot buy happiness despite having witnessed it so many times prior. It’s different when you experience cliches firsthand. It’s weird. You think for so long you’re above it and if it does happen to you, you’ll be ready. You’ve watched enough movies and television to understand the proper reaction to heartbreak. You saw how Jerry felt when he couldn’t deliver in Jerry McGuire. You basically knew how to be unemployed, sleep in public restrooms, and literally thrive on fumes and hope with Will Smith in Pursuit of Happiness. There was no cliche you weren’t ready for. You had that shit on lock son.
Until it happened and you’re sitting there looking like Richard Sherman when the Seahawks lost Superbowl XLIX in the stupidest way possible. That definitely has been me on multiple fronts. Between job apps and Tinder, basically the same thing, I was taking a beating. But damn was I good at hiding it. I thought “Pfft, I’ll get a real career job in 2 months like last time, leggo.” Famous last words in June of 2016. Nearly 7 months, 600 job apps (with a dash of cock tease courtesy of Riot Games), and a metric shit ton of lost patience later, I’m still at square 1. Or so it seems. Things may be falling into place sooner than later. I sure as fuck hope so. I can’t get my swerve on in my dad’s house. I mean really.
Speaking of which, if you’ve never appreciated the autonomy and freedom of being an independent adult, go live with your parents for a month straight. It doesn’t matter how well you get along with them, it’s like a cancer that eats at your ego. To the point where you really think about going back to where you were prior (misery, no prospects, no upward mobility, same bullshit etc.) just to have a shred of autonomy out this bitch. And it’s exponentially worse for an introverted misanthrope such as myself. Nothing gets me more motivated for the day like engaging in awkward conversation with:
A) My father, who knows as much about me as he knows about the car he just bought. Who also likes to talk in the same room I’m in about asinine things so I can’t tell if I should respond because he’s not actually looking at me, but pausing as though he wants a dialogue.
B) His side chick that became his wife because she was the only one to stick around after he just about boned half the city. But it was worth because she got a salt grain sized ring after 10 years of fuckery. Forgiven and absolved folks.
I’m over it though. I used to be bitter at homeboy for being an emotionally shitty dad for 27 years and counting, but I realized the how that situation must have played out back then. What “man” is ready to for the responsibility of a child at 19? At 27 I can barely find enough food to not die on the regular and I’m selfish af. That’s the type of life changing responsibility you drag someone else into that you love and cherish, such as the biological mother of your child. And y’all figure it out, together, then cultivate this new life, together. See what I’m getting at? I talk a lot of shit, but I will say that co-parenting works and my life conspirators are definitely shining role models for that, two times over.
Even though I’m trudging through this mire of worthlessness, confusion, quiet desperation, frustration, and general depression, it’s not as bad as it could be. I’m certainly fortunate and blessed to exercise the ability to be a piece of shit. Not everyone has the privilege to go to bed at 5am and wake up at 2pm like they ain’t go shit to do. Some of you poor saps actually have to get in your cars and drive to an establishment (before 10am, the horror!) that only values your existence based on your output. And I’m jelly as fuck. At least then I’d get paid for being a piece of shit. Shame has no monetary value. So lame.
Right now it’s like I’m vacationing at a Soviet gulag except I’m flogging myself daily with self-imposed expectations of grandeur. Yay existential crises! I’m gonna die alone under a pile of cum rags and empty Funyun bags! When I die and they’re cremating me, just toss the rags and junk food wrappers in there too. It’ll be like a badass bonfire in my memory. I’d like that a lot.