GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #834: I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO CALL THIS ONE

 I'm fucking exhausted. It's not just the sickness thing, although that's a huge part of it. Imagine feeling at your absolute lowest, and a doctor tells you that you will never feel like this again if you remove one specific thing from your life. You remove that specific thing, and it doesn't work. You feel at your worst time and time again, and it doesn't seem to stop. You'd feel betrayed, wouldn't you?

I know medical science doesn't know everything, and that there are many mysteries that may never get solved. But I'm hurting. I feel betrayed. I trusted them with this thing, and they just take a look at me, go whoopsy, and let's move on.

I can't move on. There's so much more going on in my life right now, and I usually tell you everything. There are a few things I've been holding back on. Two, to be specific. One of them I will never tell you about. The other? I almost decided to write about that tonight. But it's unspeakable, even for me. I can't. Not yet, at least.

It took all my ability to not cry on my drive home from work. That's very unusual for me because up until maybe five years ago, I thought I'd lost the ability to cry. The last time I cried was when I was a child.

It was pretty easy to stop me back then. My stepfather gave me a sharp crack across the face and said, "Boys don't cry." And he stared at me, like he was imposing his will on me. And he was.

Much to my surprise I found myself crying when my mom died. I cried when my dad died. I cried when my grandparents died. And now it seems like it's in my soul again. I can watch something sad or harrowing, and I can feel my eyes tear up. But to suddenly need to cry while I was driving? That was out of the fucking blue for me. And then for me to force myself not to cry? It was like feeling that slap across the face again from across the decades. I felt chastised.

Men are told they have to be a certain way, or they're not men. For the record, I recognize that this is the same for women and nonbinary people, too, but I can only speak of my own personal experience. The indoctrination begins almost at birth when they give you a blue blanket and talk about how one day all the ladies will swoon at your feet. That's taking a lot for granted. Hell, these days it starts with the gender reveal. Gotta have your blue smoke or your pink balloons or what have you, or you think you're not going to be a caring parent.

We focus too much on details. Can't we just be happy that we have a healthy baby? We have to foist gender norms on them before they even know what the earth's air tastes like?

Be a man. Love sports. Fuck all the girls. It's OK if they're not on the same page with you. Bully them until they'll put your dick in their mouth. It's consensual that way. But even if you go beyond that, it's OK. It's just boys roughhousing. Besides, she shouldn't have dressed that way. Gives men all sorts of ideas . . .

But you'd better want your dick in that woman's mouth. If you like other men? You're not a man.

I did not like all the kinds of things men are supposed to like. I always found comfort in books and playing with my toys. Making up my own stories. Getting lost in my thoughts. But I also had my cousin, Erik, so I was able to pretend to like that other stuff by modeling myself after him. It kept my stepfather off my back, and he was the one who wanted me to be a man.

It was odd. My father accepted my ways as manly, or at least boyish, and he didn't seem concerned with beating the shit out of me so I'd fit some kind of mold. Dad was always easy-going, and he often found it was more important to be funny than anything else, sometimes to his own detriment. I'll bet that sounds pretty familiar to a lot of people who know what I value more than most things, sometimes to my own detriment.

Yet despite that, my stepfather was the stronger influence because he had boots on the ground at all times. And I don't like admitting this part much, but some of the blame does go to my grandfather. He wanted to make sure I was a man who liked manly things. He didn't want to beat me into it, but he shamed me often. He'd take me out to ballgames, which I found as an adult weren't that bad, especially if you had whiskey with you. He got me a subscription to Playboy when I turned 18, I think because he was afraid I was gay. Gramps, too, used to say, "Boys don't cry."

I think I would have been a lot better off if my stepfather had accidentally killed me during a beating. I wouldn't have grown up into this thing that feels like the world is slipping away constantly, and I'm losing all of my battles, and I'm not even having fun making up my own stories anymore, and that was the one thing that kept me alive and sane when I was a kid.

I've spent my life trying to just get by. I was advised as a very young boy that it was best to bottle your shit up. Keep bottling it up until it becomes unbearable, then take it out on some poor prick. His offense doesn't have to be that bad, just enough to break the camel's back. And when it's done, go back to bottling it up until next time. I do bottle a lot of things up. I completely get it when Bruce Banner says, "I'm always angry." Because I fucking am. The world is unfair. I've known that longer than most people I grew up with. But as an adult I've always fought for the world to be fair. For people to stop taking advantage of others. Every time you see me rant and rave about the dipshits and fuckfaces taking advantage of us all, that's me trying to bring some balance to the world. I can't make the changes. I can only make people aware. If enough of us are aware, maybe we can gang up on the bastards.

But I can't lash out. I can't take it out on some poor prick. Because I know what I'm like when the rage has taken me over. Instead I self-immolate. I take it out on myself, because if I took it out on someone else, I'm certain I would go to prison for a very long time, and rightfully so.

And that's a man's greatest achievement, isn't it? Destroy yourself before someone else has the chance to. As much as I tried to avoid the manly lessons, I adopted the most horrifying one of them all.

Doesn't it say something that the manliest man of my youth, Arnold Swarzenegger, is on a mission to help young men find real lessons instead of the toxic bullshit that's been handed down for centuries?

I listen to him. I try. I want to be a better person, but holy fuck, I got a raw deal nearly from the start. There's shit in the DNA of my mind that will never come out, no matter how much I twist and turn the knot. I don't think Alexander the Great could cut this fucking thing.

We do so much damage to our children in the name of wanting them to be good people that we will never understand our own destructive natures. Every time I see some asshole saying something stupid on TV or, more likely, in the House of Representatives, I remind myself that they were children once. That someone visited this horror on them, and they have no idea how bad their problem is. They think they're normal. They think it's OK to boobytrap the Rio Grande, and when some kid gets hurt or even killed, fuck 'em. Because they're not Americans, dammit. Only Americans are people.

I think I've worn myself out. I'm going to post one more GF before my hiatus. It will probably be on Thursday, and I'm going to try to not be my own subject. It seems like every time I write something these days it's about me and my problems. I did some good tonight. I no longer feel the despair I started with. I feel like I made a few good points to myself, things to work on. But something's got to give. I can't see myself continuing like this for another ten, twenty, thirty years. I hope I'll find a way to shed this thing (and the two others I won't mention). It would be nice to make it to 50 without burning out like a supernova.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #720: MIDLIFE CRISIS

 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.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #562: YOU CAN ALWAYS GO FUCK YOURSELF

 So here's this thing that has always bugged me over the course of my current job. I haven't run into it at any other sales job because the things I was selling before were pretty singular. Books, for example. Or season tickets to theater. But there are a lot of options for the same auto glass. Many companies do that work.

The thing that bugs me? People who get offended at our prices. Especially if it's over, say, a windshield job that clocks in under $200 when most of the jobs are up in the $500 range. I'll be in the middle of quoting someone a price, and they'll whistle. Or they'll hang up. I get that, and I'm cool with that. But it's the others that get to me. The ones who say, "That's fucking outrageous." Or, "Does that come with a blowjob?" Or, "You're crazy if you think I'm paying that much for whatever."

So you're offended at our prices. Fine. I'm willing to negotiate where I can, but if you're going to be a dick about it, I'm much less inclined to help you. Plus I have about twenty people on hold who might be more receptive to our prices.

"Well, I got such and such a price from this other company!" is a retort I get often. Good for you, Chuckles. Buy from them. There isn't a law that says you have to buy from us. Stop wasting my time so I can help someone else who isn't going to be a dripping goat's penis.

I realize this might make me sound like an asshole, but I'd like to point out that these are things I think. When people are dicks to me, I double down on politeness. There is no fathomable reason why you should react like that when you're just shopping around, anyway. I'd much rather you rudely hung up on me. That saves me from talking to a brick wall, and it helps me move on to the next person on hold.

What could possibly be going through someone's head that they would react so poorly to me giving them a mere quote? Is it some form of self-entitlement? Some holier-than-thou kind of thing? "Dammit, I'm better than everyone else, so I deserve a better price?"

I've been laying off cannabis. For reasons. But my patience with the world is getting thin. I probably need to chill the fuck out.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #246: NO NIGHT OUT AT THE HOSPITAL*

You look up at the clock and see it's getting late. More importantly it's time for your pain medication. This will obviously help you sleep tonight. You hit the button. "This is Nurse [name redacted]. How can I help you, [your name here]?"


"I think it's time for my pain medication," you say.


"I'll let your nurse know."


That could mean that your nurse will show up instantly. Or maybe in five minutes. More likely in 15 minutes. If you're lucky. Surprise! You're lucky. She's here in less than five. She has your shot. It is glorious. It takes a moment to take hold because you've been loaded up with Dilaudid all day, but when it hits, it comforts. It feels like a burning gas in your chest and head. You want to close your eyes. You start to drift off. Soon you're asleep.


For maybe ten minutes. "Knock, knock," says a nurse. And you're awake again. Fuck. She apologizes, but she's here to check your vitals. She puts the blood pressure cuff on one arm and puts the pulse monitor on a finger on the other arm. She puts a thermometer under your tongue. It takes five minutes, and it's over. "I hope you get some rest," she says. You hope so, too. It takes a moment to get back into the groove, but you do. After maybe a half-hour you start to drift off again. Ah. Sleep is finally upon you. It takes you under.


For about five minutes. "Knock, knock." It's another nurse. This one is here to take your blood sugar readings. She asks you which finger, and you volunteer one that hasn't been punished too badly. She fucks up the first time, because this is her first night shift. But that's OK. Blood sugar tests are the least of your pains. She gets it right the second try. "Sleep well," she says. And it's over. It's harder this time, but you finally start to drift off yet again. You fall asleep. It is glorious.


For about five minutes. "Knock, knock." This nurse wants to take blood samples. As if you haven't given up enough of your blood since you got here. She can't take it from the arm with the IV in it, so you offer the other arm, the one with the collapsed vein because it's been pierced too many times. It takes her about five minutes to find a viable blood vessel, but she gets it after slapping the shit out of your arm. It takes her a couple of pokes before she gets two giant test tubes full of your blood. "Now rest up," she says. And she's gone. Holy Christ, please let that be it. You don't know if you can take anymore of this. There's just barely enough Dilaudid in your system to get you moving toward sleep again. But you succeed.


And maybe it's just five minutes. If you're lucky it's fifteen minutes. But that's when your IV starts beeping, and your eyes snap open. You try to figure out how to get it to stop, but there are so many buttons, and there's just no way. Finally you give in and press the button for the main desk. "This is Nurse [name redacted]. How can I help, [your name here]?"


"My IV is beeping."


"We'll get someone there as soon as possible."


It's never as soon as possible. If you're lucky it's 15 minutes. If you're average, like me, it takes a half an hour. A nurse shows up, apologizes and shuts that fucking machine up.


Blissful silence. No more nurse interruptions. It's the dead of night. You can finally fall asleep again, except . . . you can't. You're wide awake now. You look to the clock, hoping that it's time for your injection of pain meds. Nope. You've got two hours to go.


Fuck.


You try to sleep. Nothing. You try to fantasize. Nothing. You try finding something boring on TV, and while that's not a challenge, it still doesn't help. You keep looking at the clock, and the arms never seem to move. What the fuck? You close your eyes, hoping you can pretend to sleep hard enough that you actually fall asleep. Nope. Nothing helps.


And then it happens. The glorious moment when it actually *is* time for your pain meds. You hit the button. "This is Nurse [name redacted]. How can I help you, [your name here]?"


"I think it's time for my pain meds."


"I'll let your nurse know."


This time of day? That's a 20 minute wait at least. This time it is a half-hour. The nurse apologizes. She says that she wanted to double-check with the doctor to make sure you're supposed to get this shot. And then she gives it to you. It is wonderful. It takes a moment to hit you, but when it does you feel on top of the world.


And you finally--FINALLY--fall asleep.


If you're lucky, you get two hours of sleep. More likely you get one hour. Or something in between. One way or the other, it's only a matter of time before this happens: "Knock, knock." It's a nurse. She wishes you a good morning, but she's here to check your vitals.


And the cycle continues.


Hospitals: dedicated to make sure you enjoy nothing since the beginning of time.










*The title of this episode of GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS comes from this song. In case you couldn't surmise that.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #245: GROWING

Here is something I've never said to ANYONE before. It's not because it's a deep, dark secret. It's just because I've never really thought about it before. But it's true.


When I was a kid, I wanted to grow things. I mean, living things. My mom got me my first garden, and I royally fucked it up. There was supposed to be corn, tomato and something else. I don't remember. Guess what: I fucked it up. Maybe it was pumpkin. MAYBE.


Fast forward to when I was growing up with my grandparents. When I had an actual backyard instead of a few pots in the kitchen. I tried to grow shit again to no avail. Never mind that I hate veggies, fruits, etc. I wanted to grow something. To give something life.


And I failed at every turn.


Before I was ten I had a dozen gardens, and they all failed. I followed instructions to the T. Maybe I just didn't have enough love in my heart for this shit to grow. I don't know. But it never did.


Before I became a teenager I gave up. I never tried to grow anything ever again. I couldn't even make a Chia pet grow. Nothing botanical would grow under my brown thumb.


When I got my job as a conference operator, the person who got me my job gave me a fish as a cube decoration. Except my fish died in two weeks. So she gave me a plant, and I figured this thing would be dead in no time.


Surprise! It survived my 10 years as a conference operator/tech support dude. It only started dying when I lost that job. Then: I got my current job as a repair guy at a telecom company, and now it's thriving. I don't know how that happened. Maybe it's just because I was told a spider plant is nearly impossible to kill.


I certainly didn't grow it.


The last thing I tried to grow was a Venus fly trap. I was told that you could be a grade A fuck up, and you could still grow this fucking thing. Well, I guess not. This thing didn't even sprout.


The people who owned my place before me knew how to grow flowers so well that every year they bloom without prompting, and they've been doing that for decades. Hell, sometimes the atavistic nature of the land will grow a corn stalk without knowing any better.


But once. JUST ONCE. I'd like to grow something on my own.


This is the final GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS of the year. Tomorrow I will post my favorite GF of the year. Happy New Year's, everyone.