... that bus-sized asteroid would hit the earth tomorrow. That would be a Monday for the ages.
Well, yeah, I'm depressed again. That's always fun for everybody. I'm in the worst physical shape of my life, too, so that's great. The tremendous amount of work I put into getting a second degree and looking for a job and degrading myself as a substitute teacher while I looked for work and the application process to nine grad schools when the economy collapsed? That all turned to shit. I did all that work for nothing. Nothing. And it took all my mojo. I've lost my mojo. My enthusiasm is tapped out. I'm in a band. I like the people in the band and I like the songs they write, but I'm having a hard time getting any pleasure out of playing the drums right now. I'm having a hard time getting any pleasure out of this blog or Twitter. I'm having a hard time getting any pleasure out of anything. I get drunk too often, sit on my ass too much, eat too much late-night garbage food. I get too much sleep three or four days a week and not enough sleep the other days. I'm turning my body into a sack of crap. I get out of bed and it feels like I haven't slept and my knees ache and my feet ache and my head hurts and I'm pissed off.
Here's the plan. The job search is going nowhere, so it can go fuck itself to nowhere. I need to get my health back. I'm going to start sleeping right. I'm going to get up early and get some exercise. I'm going to stop getting drunk. I'm going to stop eating garbage food and eating late at night. I'm going to take my ass off the Internet and read more books. I'm going to unplug myself from the current culture that I despise. I'm going to get my shit together. I'm tired of living like a jerkoff.
One exception to this plan: Two of my friends have an annual Fourth of July party. It is my favorite party of the year. The food is fantastic, the company is great, and the fun is about as fun as fun gets. I had to miss this party the last two summers to attend out-of-town weddings. This year, I am getting drunk as a lord, and I'm going to stuff my face like the world's fattest epicurean. But that's the exception. I want to feel better, and I've got to make some lifestyle changes to make this shit happen. Let's see if I can make it work.
Please excuse this self-indulgent drivel. I post this drivel publicly because I tend to stick to my plans when I make them public on this blog. I put this disclaimer at the end of the post instead of the beginning because fuck you that's why.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
"We all gotta leave here sometime, and hopefully, it'll be at ninety-five, in our sleep, with a couple of big-booty old ladies feeding us grapes and ice cream." -- Bigg Robb, Roger Troutman's talk box tech
I'm beginning to think my own demise will occur much sooner, possibly next week, slumped over the computer, a mediocre heart implosion smacking me down in the middle of my filling out another pointless job application, surrounded by empty fruit snack wrappers, a half-finished glass of bourbon, three slices of white cheddar, and my own withering, rotting, decomposing self-belief. I'm a minor, mediocre, American failure. I haven't done anything, professionally, and will never do anything, professionally. No one will ever give me another opportunity to prove I can do anything other than take up space until this whole boring, mediocre system collapses and we start eating each other's boring, stupid flesh. Fuck you, and good night.