The Pussy

40

Of course I can’t fucking write this morning. Needed to prove something to myself. I’m fucking 40. 40. I’ll die young. Dad died at 67. So did his dad. His dad and his dad and so on. 27 years left.

Whatever– that’s a long time. Three weeks would be a long time. 57 minutes until I have to leave for work. Feels like planets could coalesce out of space dust, go through volcanic cataclysms, roaring flaming atmospheres. Sentient algae come into being. Form civilizations. All that could happen in the eternity it took me to write that fucking sentence. By the time I go warm up the Subaru, sixteen pages of this stream of consciousness shit. Maybe one sentence usable. People say life is short. It isn’t. Not even in retrospect.

40. The whole time broke. Didn’t write for ten years. When I started again it was garbage. Still garbage. No one reads it. And that zero cut in half since I stopped telling bald dorks how to get OKCupid pussy. No one’s interested in my shit. Except–no, I get emails occasionally. Keep at it man. Your shit saved my life. That feels good. Or, better still: I’m a girl, let’s fuck.

Lately though it’s people wanting work on resumes. Here’s a resume tip: jam a fucking AIDS needle in your eye. You read how I hate work. How the only thing I hate worse is job seeking. You think what this guy needs is to work on my resume. Go back in time, become a fetus and get Zika. One of them was a Viet girl. Thought it might turn into pussy. But she’s gay. Go get a job being gay.

Here’s my advice. Burn your resume and never get a job. Never. My mom inculcated the value of work by having me get a job at McDonald’s. It taught me I’m a piece of shit. Worthless meat occupying space to– I want to say “flip burgers” but I stop myself. The McDonald’s clamshell grill sears both sides of the patty simultaneously. I’m meat taking up space at the Quarter Pounder station until they can figure out the robots. A liability sucking four bucks an hour from the system.

All I wanted was to write this morning. Plus at least $2 million for free and to impregnate a fifteen year old Asian. It’s my birthday and it sucks and I’ll be miserable. Have to go to fucking work. A mountain of tasks. They may or may not throw me a surprise luncheon that I don’t want but if they don’t do it I’ll be pissed. The staff– women who won’t fuck me so why are they alive.

Don’t ever work. The Earth used to provide for you. You were made to wake up, spend a few minutes impaling one animal that would feed your village for a week. Then lay around and fuck all god damn day. Look at the stars. Make up stories– there’s the Great Buffalo. The Great Crow. The Great Squirrel, whateverthefuck– hey let’s fuck some more. There was no get sick suffer long die old. You got fucked up a little bit, you were dead. So if you were alive you were perfect.

Now– the opposite of what you were made for. Work, stare at a screen, worry about your god damn 401(k). Will it be enough to sustain you and your wife and your kids whom you spent a million dollars college educating so they could have enough to sustain their wife and kids. You inherit nothing. Everything must come from the sweat of your brow while hustling liars steal it from you.

I’m fucking 40 years old. A middle aged man. Live alone in an apartment with cat hair in the rug. Half cotton half poly wrinkle free dress shirts. I’m an ordinary working American they talk about in campaign ads. Except I’m alone, no one loved me, no one married me; the only thing that could be worse is if someone had. I have a stupid web site nobody reads. This is the standout achievement of my life. I tried to turn it into money by asking three dollars for the shit that was the pinnacle of my inspiration. It did not make me famous. 40, running out of people to compare myself to. Houellebecq and his god damn too hard to spell name– at 39 he’d written Whatever. A revered cult sensation.

Then again it wasn’t until The Elementary Particles that he could even quit his job. You can’t write for a living. People whose sixteen hour days are Taylor Swift is Problematic and Top Ten Tips to Market Money Management to Millennials barely get by. People who actively sell out their dream can’t get paid. Too many people want to write. Life’s work worth less than laying cheese on Quarter Pounders.

One person writes good shit on the internet. Cat Marnell, who had a trust fund and a free apartment and unlimited speed. A room of one’s own. She could barely crank out ten columns for Vice. Her XO Jane shit still had to be half about mascara. She got a half million dollar book deal that will never earn out and God knows if she’ll even make the book. Will it be pure raw brilliance like her rhyming Vice piece or will it be fucking garbage like 99% of her shit and yours and mine. Anyway she’s younger than me. Someone gave her half a million to write a book. My book made one month’s rent.

Can’t make a living. Society: complete shit in every respect. We worship money grubbing lying hustling Ryan Colin Kavanaughs. Mothers tell their children: grow up to be Mark fucking Zuckerberg. Other days what saves me is: it’s just another day. Today’s the fucking day I turn 40 years old.

Hadn’t expected to be this miserable. I’d heretofore considered my job a “good” job. Now it’s killing me because I’m good at it. They heap on responsibility. Fine. I’ll leverage it into money, which I’ll hoard and fucking hope to God it’s enough to take some god damn time off and write before my mind goes. Already slipping. Thoughts eyes muscles leaving me. I’m turning slow and stupid and I forget big words but on the other hand when I’m rawdogging a fat 22 year old half Korean off Tinder I instantly get hard again after nutting in her navel. My cock still works. Will 22 year olds still fuck me since the odometer rolled over.

Don’t want to turn 40 this morning. Take stock of my life. Not rich not married no kids. I have a mildly popular blog and I can play Bach on guitar– the achievements of a 17 year old. Help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety– for what. So they too can be platitude spouting jerkoffs.

Don’t want to turn 40. Turn back the clock. Yesterday I was working. The day before that and the day before that. Then I was at dad’s funeral. Shaking hands with my cousin Steve. Been 20 years. He went bald and his face turned into a cave man from the museum. He’s cockeyed now. He once set himself on fire trying to illegally burn garbage. He has a girlfriend and a kid. I’m less than him.

It’s over. You’ll never achieve your dreams. Thank God. Relax and beat off. Being 20 wasn’t so fuckin great either.