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Does anybody know: What day it is, what’s going on, Where am I going?

In this heat, these circumstances, this isolation, it’s got me feeling like I don’t know the: who, what, where, when, why, how.

Does it matter if one knows the answer to these questions? I’d like to know because it would help me.

Trigger warning: self-hatred, depression, low self-esteem.

I wrote this while drunk on Saturday the 8th.

Maybe I’ve gone crazy. Perhaps I’ve finally accepted that I’m a narcissist. I’ve done nothing with my life, acting like I’m more than I am and expecting more out of my meager life than it is.

I ain’t anything but a 37-year-old loser, a sheltered man living with his mother. All I’ve had are entry-level jobs I’ve somehow fucked up because of my immaturity or entitlement. The only thing that’s given me relief as an adult is substance escapes. Message boards, video games, food, alcohol, anime, television, movies, weed, dreams. Reality has always been a thing too awful to face. I’ve never been good enough to be great at anything. Trying medicine after medicine hasn’t healed me. For a decade-plus, therapy hasn’t ailed my psychological wounds, no matter how much I put in.

I’ve probably lost most of y’all reading this because of my feeling sorry for myself. I understand that sentiment.

People want an optimist. A person in denial of the awful reality our modern capitalist world creates. 27/7 Misery. Because it’s profitable.

Yet we, as the working (enslaved person with income) class, must continue in this misery to survive—a survival that validates this oppressive system.

A system so powerful that none of us can escape.

I don’t understand how y’all go to work knowing this is the best it’ll ever be. This capitalist system won’t change in our lifetimes.

But that’s not something you can control. What is, is not becoming an addict or loser like your dad, and you’ve failed that too.

Here you are, in the same room he lived in most of his short life, drunk and writing. Complaining that you suck and making excuses.

You ain’t any type of successful. You ain’t Bukowski. You ain’t Anthony Bourdain or Emeril Lagasse. You ain’t anything. You haven’t even surpassed your loser father.

I know I’ll pay for this IPA drunken relaxation later. Boy, I wish I could be this confident sober.

Now that I’m under the influence, I can say this: I hate my life and am depressed about the state of my life. This is not where I thought I’d be.

In all measures, I’ve failed. In all my efforts, I’ve failed. I’m fed up with being patient, practicing gratitude, or doing therapy exercises.

I’m bitter and unhappy with life. Where are the fucking results? When is delaying gratification going to pay off? Will it ever? It feels like something that happens for others, not me.

I’m not the man I’d thought I’d be at this age. I didn’t have a specific plan for this age or where I thought I’d be regarding life progress… But it wasn’t this. Not a man afraid of approaching women, being alone, having had sex once, and having no idea what he wants to do to earn money.

I’m a loser with nothing to show for it.

I guess I assumed that becoming a fantastic writer or blogger would save me from my mediocre fate. Help me escape this life I hate and work on my terms. The problem is, is that I’m a hack with no work ethic. Nothing interesting to write about in an interesting way.

I thought I’d be over my past hurts, but I am not. Not the tragedy I caused in 2020. While the grief has changed since it’s been a burden holding me back from life. I have tried many times in the years between to find a girlfriend but failed each time.

If you somehow made it through this self-flagulation, thanks.

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