To be read to this song.
I should probably be dead by now. It almost happened a few times. Sometimes I wish it had. Because I'm pretty fucking miserable. I put up a good front. My go-to defense mechanism is humor, and it's almost knee-jerk. I don't have to put a lot of thought into that humor. It just sort of happens.
When I was in my early twenties I went through a midlife crisis, or at least I thought I did. It was a grim time, mostly because I didn't do a lot of drinking back then. Not yet. Drinking is a great defense mechanism, too, by the way. Until it's not.
But here I am at the age of 45, and I'll be damned if I'm not going through another midlife crisis. This one's the real deal, though. I felt pretty hopeless way back when, but I also knew that I still had plenty of time back then. Now I feel completely hopeless. I'm rethinking everything I've ever done. I'm looking over the mistakes of my life and regretting a lot of them.
I'm dissatisfied with the way things turned out. This is not the life I imagined when I was a kid. Granted, I thought I'd be a world renowned detective, and what were the odds of that happening? Hell, maybe that's what I should do now. Quit everything I'm doing now and get a job with a private investigations agency. Because I'd never work for the cops. In case you haven't noticed, I have a problem with authority. I'd make a great researcher, and I could probably learn the ropes quickly until I become a PI myself. I used to have that fantasy. Maybe I could do that now. I'll look into it when I have more time.
But I'm thinking back over the course of my life, trying to figure out where it went wrong, and I think I found the cause. Even when I was in high school I had confidence in my writing, and back then I really should not have. But I did. I figured I'd be making a living as an author by now, and yeah, I have books out. Yeah, there are a lot of publications to my name. Yeah, people know who I am. But I'm not even close to making a living on my writing. I'm not even a quarter of the way there. Not even an eighth.
I figured I'd keep a square job until my writing took off, so I've lived that way ever since. What I should have done was go to college for something that wouldn't turn out to be fucking useless. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say this line at least once: "I went to Elmhurst College where I majored in English and Philosophy, two things guaranteed to get me nowhere in the world." It's funny the first time you hear it. But this laugh isn't worth it.
I should have studied something more important. I think I should have majored in business instead. That's a degree I can actually do something with. I had another fantasy: start a used bookstore. I could have used such an education to do that very thing. I always thought I should open a dive bar, but maybe that would have been a bad idea, considering how my drinking turned out.
But I could have used that shit to get myself a real job, not these bullshit jobs I keep kicking around at, earning just enough money to buy a sock to jerk off into and have an extra for when that one gets too stiff. And then I could do all sorts of real job type stuff while moonlighting as an author until my writing took off. Plus, since I don't have extravagant tastes, I could probably throw my disposable income into an advertising campaign, which would really fucking help.
Yet here I sit with my dissatisfaction. You may have noticed a lot of my GF columns of late have been political/social ranting about how we're all getting fucked over by rich fucks with no moral fiber who are encouraged by politicians with no moral fiber so long as they get their payday. What do my rants get me? Nothing. Not a goddam thing. It just makes me even more pissed off, and for what? Why should I care? People bitch about inflation, but I think they secretly love it. There's no other explanation for why we haven't guillotined Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk and their likes. So why should I bother talking about it? It does nothing but work me up, and it's never going to change anyone's mind.
And then there's my current square job. How the fuck do I keep getting sucked into sales jobs? When I went for the interview, I was under the impression it was customer service. That's what a lot of companies do now, by the way. They post jobs as customer service when they really mean sales. I was offered the job, and I took it because I was desperate. I'd been out of work for more than a year at that point. I was at the second lowest point in my life. It seemed like the only way to save myself. And now I go to that job five days a week, pissed off that I don't get a full weekend. Angry that a quarter of the calls I get aren't even sales calls. Mad at all the other departments that torpedo my fucking sales. And now they're outsourcing half of our calls? I have to dig deep to get any work done, and it's driving me fucking crazy. It's a lot of effort for very little reward. And to top things off, I came within two sales of meeting my quota last month. Two. 198 out of 200. So I didn't get paid off on all that work. I should have moved on from that job by now. Why am I still there?
I realize that with my history of what is currently called "mental health struggles," that tonight's column might be a little unsettling. If I was going to kill myself, I'd just do it. No one would get any warning whatsoever. I wouldn't want anyone stopping me. So take it as a good sign that I'm writing this. So no need for any pep talks. I'm not on the ledge. I am thinking about making a lot of life changes, though. Ending Goodnight, Fuckers is one of them. Getting the fuck off of social media is another. Hell, I've even thought about abandoning who I am entirely and going to work for the villains. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Good God, I'm even thinking of going into politics! That's how desperate I am. Any fucking dickhead can be a politician. Hell, you don't even have to have even a passing relationship with the truth. Look at George Santos. Guess what? I graduated from Harvard. I'm a lawyer now. And a doctor. Shit, why not send out a bunch of resumes packed with lies? No one seems to give a shit about that. Are they really going to do a background check?
All those times when I was younger and thought I was miserable? What a fucking idiot I was. All that shit is nothing compared to how I feel now.
Mom died at 53. That's not all that far from where I stand now. I'm running out of time.
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