It is late on a Sunday night, and I am drunk on red wine. It is raining outside, which is not what you’d call the typical December pre-Christmas weather here today. It is nasty, dark, wet, and has all kinds of shit-out-of-place vibes. As poetic as it sounds or not, it is true. I am out of place as well, as per my usual demeanor. I just went outside to smoke and got a little wet. Why wouldn’t I? It is raining like the weather don’t know what fucking month it is. I am not in the holiday spirits, so to speak, but I am high on a wine spirit tonight, and that, for what it is, makes me comfortable, if you can call it, or anything else comfortable these days. The comfort is and has been out of reach for quite a fucking while, and there is nothing but shitstorm and misfortune all the fucking way as I can see it. It is not uncommon for me to ramble my way out on these digital pages and complain about my life and the shit I am going through. Of course, I am going through yet another fucking life shitshow, and nothing seems to make any sense or work toward my general success and happiness. I wish there would be nothing but the good times to write about and to reflect on, but no, you fuck, you always have to deal with something, life is always against you, and you, as usual, are on the wrong side of things.
So, where does one begin? Well, there has been no job since August and no paychecks coming in for over five months and counting. I’ve been searching for a new job and applied for so many jobs, but there is nothing there for me yet. Honestly, I should’ve been more disappointed and angry about that, but I am not. I know why. I do fucking know why. The reason is that I just don’t give a fuck about a regular office nine-to-five jobs. I hate them all. I always did. Over the last twelve years, I’ve been through so many of these jobs that I know how they all typically end. They all end with a major fucking disappointment. They all end with a major mind fuck pre, during, and afterward. So why in the fuck would I get myself involved in any more of that shit? I don’t know. The regular weekly or bi-weekly paycheck is probably the best reason for it, but besides, there is nothing else. A typical office job requires way too much of your life and time, and soul and brainfuck that it just makes it so unworthy. I am honestly way, way too fucking fed up with it all. I’ve been there and back and there again and out of a job way too many times to understand that, to see it clearly, like a bright blue sky in the mid-summer season. My point is that even if I am broke as fuck and not making any money, I am so not willing to slave myself away yet again in one of those corporate machines to fuck me dry yet again.
Some promising recruiters contacted me, and some interviews followed, but there were always better candidates than me. Of course, there were. Why wouldn’t they be? There is just so much hypocrisy and bullshit in that corporate world that it just makes me sick to my stomach. These corporate fucks, with their job security and steady paychecks, are the ones who are about to determine my financial future and my future destiny. I don’t want them to control my future destiny or my present or any fucking thing. How fucked up is that? I fucking hate all that shit. I really do. I can feel the nausea in every inch of my body and soul just by imagining myself working a typical office nine-to-five job. I know how they operate. I know why they are that way. And also, I know that this shit will never end. So, my game plan is to join them or to send them the fuck away. And I, as a true to myself and my senses, self-respecting human being who is totally fucking fed up with all that bullshit, will go with the latter. Give me money, give me power, I don’t care, said Elon Musk once during an interview, quoting a line from some movie, and that is how I feel about corporate employment these days. Fuck them all!
There’s got to be another way of this shithole. There’s got to be a better way, period. How would I find it? I don’t know, but I think I could get closer to something if I try hard enough. Some years ago, when I was gainfully employed and had some money saved in the bank, I wanted to become a professional writer. I wanted to write for a living and fuck all that corporate horseshit, having a steady corporate paycheck coming in regularly with that. As years went by, I saw that there were just too many writers and poets out there, and very few of them actually made it. I know I have no audience, even based on my last book. There is nobody interested in my “art,” in my writing, in my shit. All I have been doing was to get myself out there, to post to write, to share, to create to publish or rather, self-publish my books, in desperate hopes that somebody might, fucking might somehow come across them, read them, and appreciate my work. However, as of today, December 15, 2024, and since early April of 2016, there have been none. So, I could still keep myself hopeful and keep writing and posting and all that shit, but the reality is that there is nobody interested in anything I do. I am continuing to write because of the power of my self-expressing through the writing, and also, I just fucking love writing. I don’t give a fuck if somebody is reading or not. I am doing it for myself primarily. It helps me to heal. It helps with my anxiety. It helps with my depression. It helps with my self-reflection. Writing, in general, helps in just so many different ways. So, I don’t give a fuck if anybody’s a fan; I still write for and to myself. Maybe one day, somebody will discover these “jewels,” and my writing will become something. Maybe not. But, having two young sons growing up, it might be interesting for them, one day, to see, read, feel, and understand where their father came from and what feelings and emotions, and struggles I went through, capturing all that shit in these blog posts, and poems, and short stories and all. I am staying true and honest to my core and my beliefs, and my passion, and I will continue writing just because I fucking love it and it makes me feel good. What’s wrong with that bitches? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with that. To each their own, motherfuckers. Remember that.
“Home, where my heart is. Home where my love is.” These are not my two lines, but they are powerful and so full of life, emotions, and humility. This song just came up in my earbuds on a Coffeehouse channel, and it made perfect sense at the moment. This song is by an unknown artist, who has a name, but it is not important in this case; what is important, though, is that this random song that came up as I was standing there smoking yet another cigarette standing out there in the rain in the middle of the night, hit me and resonated with me and made me feel a certain way, it made me think a certain way, and now, here we fucking go, I am writing about it. This is what true art is. This is what true art is. This is what makes people go, try, do, create, fuck up and recreate, and sing, and write, and play, and inspire others, and impact other people’s lives. To me, that is the most important thing in life: to impact other people’s lives with whatever you do. This random song inspired me, and now I am inspired to write about it, and maybe, somehow, this writing will inspire somebody else, and so on. And the whole damn chain of thoughts, emotions, experiences, and creativity will rise from the dust of hell and into eternity of light. The art will live forever, appreciated or not, understood or not, paid for or not.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, said somebody famous long ago. The reason this phrase is still around is because it makes fucking sense to so many people in so many situations. It is sure as fuck accurate and relevant today in my current situation as anything. I have fallen to desperate times, hitting the rock fucking bottom with my face down first, crashing into the cement pavement smeared with shit and misery. The interesting thing is that I am scared anymore. I am not crushed. I am not afraid of anything. Why? Because I’ve been there before. I fucking been to hell and back before and not one time, and I know, that one fucking beautiful sunny day, this shit will pass like night passes the day or the day passes the night, it doesn’t matter, but the point is that nothing is constant and nothing will remain the same. I am not reacting to it as I would’ve some years ago. I remain calm. I look straight into the darkness of the night, blowing out my cigarette smoke with my head up high. I will show them bitches where the misery goes to die. I will break through and come back stronger than I ever was. Why? Be-fucking-cause. This is me, and this is I, and I know myself, and I know what I am capable of doing and not doing, and once in the fucking blue moon, even the stars will align for me and shine the way, shine the way the fuck out of here. I have everything I need right now: a loving family and the people who are with me through all of it. I am with them for all of it, too. I don’t need no fucking corporate paychecks, no fucking health insurance coverage in exchange for the so-called “job security,” and the steady contributions to my never fucking come to fruition 401K plan with no fucking future to live beyond two-three years. I will fucking make it one day, somehow, I will, I know. And when I am there, I will look back laughing at myself today, thinking, what the fucking joke that was, how could that stupid shit derail me so bad? Poor myself the champagne, which I fucking hate, but as a symbol of the big victory, I will pour it down smiling as I lit my cigarette out on the beach somewhere in Florida, with my family beside me, having the time of our lives.
