Day 12- countdown to quitting
I haven’t written in some time because I have been drunk, like blood level .33 every night. Work has continued, though the early morning duties have been severely lacking in my “give a fuck-a-tude”. I still have no current job lined up, no hope for the future apart from a glimmer of hope that I might get my Masters in English and teach your future children why John Kennedy Toole is more superior to Proust or some other nonsense that no modern reader can identify.
So eleven days left and counting. I’m still in the cabin, and while the cold weather has helped make it more amendable, the dead scorpion I found in the shower today says otherwise. To top that garbage pail kids-style disgust, I also woke up at 3 am to the sound of what be closest compared to the beginning of Gangs of New York. Shouting and howling, even screaming, was within ten yards of my now front door. I ran outside with a Stephens 1930 12 gauge and Vietnam issued shotgun shell belt loop (my dad’s), wrapped gingerly around my fluffy waist. Much like the Viking and Spartan warriors of the past, I also decided to run out fully naked, apart from the belt, as this would surprise my foes. But do not fear for my junk, dear readers, as I have a massively small penis until aroused.
Coming outside, I yelled incoherently much like Leonidas in the movie version of 300, though sounding like the Wilhelm Scream. The animals ignored me, and I could hear them still tearing into some animal in the deepest of the dark. They had no interest in me, as of this point. I found courage, and loaded a shot into the single barrel shotgun. When I popped the shaft back up, I expected a reply, but they had no interest in retreating or for that matter giving a shit that I was there.
But they had not understood with whom they were fucking with. I haven’t learned anything in my life apart from don’t drink orange juice after brushing and only wear a condom if she/he (with respect to all genders, though I love the vag) tells you that you’ll die if you don’t. However at that moment, while the animals were howling and the sound of flesh was being ripped apart to terrified screams, I realized one crucial lesson that my kindergarten teachers failed to teach. Always carry a flashlight in the woods, particularly when you have to wear coke bottle contacts just to see which 24 ounce you’re about to purchase.
I fired into the sky, the kick knocking my fat, uncovered ass into the hard ground below. The sounds of natural selection stopped, and I was left in total silence. I stared into the darkness as a movement started to approach. Only the dim glow from the 40 watt outside bulb that hadn’t been changed in fourteen years, caught the silhouette approaching me. If I was to say that it could only compare to the big black wolf from Neverending Story, that’s probably because I was as drunk as I am now.
The beast approached, every step more calculated than the next. I felt for my shotgun waist band, and finding a suitable shell, almost loaded my penis into single barrel. Luckily I ejaculated before I popped the barrel closed, due to fear nonetheless. The beast sensed my fear and probably the horrible smell of semen tainted with bourbon and spam.
My end was near, there was no doubt. I would die like Elijah Wood in Sin City, except without those kick ass glasses and Charlie Brown shirt. The beast’s eyes cut through the dark, and I could see the red stained teeth of the most recent kill. It moved like a spider, if a spider had only four legs and was seventy times larger and didn’t need the dependence of a web. My end was close, the beast was only a few feet away. I could see the haggard black fur now, and prayed to God to help my cause on the stipulation that I would become a Quaker and sell oatmeal or cookies from a tree if he didn’t help.
Suddenly my slightly erect penis emitted a stream of urine that arched up and into the beast’s treacherous snout. I don’t recall having to urinate, but did feel a slight warmth from the two liters of Evan Williams coursing through my liver. The beast howled, a horrible vagrant howl much like waking up to find “I suck cock” written on your face by your so-called buddies after a hard party where you can’t remember anything and spent two hours cleaning your vomit out of the sink because you forgot there was a toilet right there.
Feeling a sense of ashamed courage, I loaded the shotgun correctly this time and fired again. Despite trying to aim for the unhealthy color now covering the beast’s face, I shot to high, hitting a branch in the pine tree above. The limb came crashing down, right on top of the sound of the fiasco, and the sounds of pain filled the air along with the flutter of animals running wildly into the dark woods that surround the goddamn cabin where-in I live.
The beast, obviously blinded by urine and afraid of my now dried semen, looked back for a second to see his posse bolting. He turned back to me, and let out a howl that sent shivers through my spine which was injured in ’98 when I flipped a car and caused me to become addicted to something that ends with codeine and is available behind the mirror of my neighbor’s bathroom only two miles away.
But I was standing up now, and the gun was loaded. I pulled the trigger, but it was a misfire, quite common in the make of those models according to a good quote from the classic Unforgiven. The beast lunged, and stood my ground ready to die that night, which was last night. Unfortunately for him, he found no fat sack of disease and depression, but only the cold ground littered with a shotgun and belt of shells. I had skedaddled up the yard and into the house, making sure to close and lock the door in case he was like one of those shitty Disney animals which can manipulate common hacking abilities.
As I peered out the windows, penis now fully inside my body much like a vag due to fear, I saw him sniff the ground where I was. The beast was truly enormous, his size was unexplainable unless you’ve seen Jaws and can imagine the shark with fur, legs, claws, and the ability to survive outside of water. He was most interested in the shotgun, and pawed around with it. Leaning down, he sniffed the sulfur (?) that emitted from the barrel, not noting that his back foot was pressed against the trigger. Though I didn’t recall loading the gun, it was apparent that I had as a loud blast erupted through the night taking half his face with it.
As the body slumped to the ground, the other beasts appeared out of the dark. Though they were much smaller in size, they seemed to gain size as they ripped into him like a zombie from any of the zombie movies except WWZ, because I hate that goddamn movie because it had nothing to do with the book.
So 12 days left until I become fully unemployed, and am excited due to complete and utter inebriation.
Quitter’s delight- Day 28
So I am drunk. I think it’s a good plan when you’re quitting your subscribed life. I tried to update the blog yesterday, but passed out after a thirty dollar tab at a wings joint, and plenty of bourbon after. It’s only fair to add the mixture of klonopin (which I will call K-holes for the rest of blog, as it sounds cooler) that proved to not calm the alcoholic beast. I sleep on the kitchen floor of the cabin, which was only seventeen degrees cooler than the actual bedroom with an air conditioning unit. I fucking hate global warming. Also I hate typos, but as doom has ridden his shitty donkey over the horizon after it had to take a shit and sleep for a bit, I completely forgot my point.
As of today, I did nothing productive. It’s odd how much you give a shit when you know you are ready to quit. The paychecks are much needed, but the fact that I actually have to work for them is lost in the outlook weekly calendar that I’ve sent for 9 years. I want to care, but it feels so important.
I have a staff meeting tomorrow, one of four before I leave (every friday). As I’ve stated before, my bosses are cool cats, but the staff meetings last at minimum 6 hours and its mainly me in a suit and tie trying to care about what everyone else is saying. Maybe that’s why I should leave. I love a certain aspect of what I do, but the overall burden isn’t worth. I have friends who wake up each day and spring to life at fucking 7 am, ready to tackle the world. Jesus or Lincoln said that we all are made for a reason, but what if we don’t figure out that need. I could be a motherfucker at yarn and crotchet, yet never know it.As such, I’ve neglected my own basis due to the expectation of our genders. Is there not a saint that looks over the drunks and loss of appetite?
There was so much to do today, but I couldn’t find the time. It’s not like I was planning weddings or consulting on upcoming splendors. I simply gave not a fuck to the day. Sorry to bring you down, my three dear readers, but sometimes just waking up is hard to do. I hope tomorrow is better, and if not, then I’ll pour whiskey down my throat and type up a better story than I had today.
I’m 28 days away from leaving a full time job, the only time since I was fourteen that I haven’t had some type of income. Perhaps I’ll go back to school, and perhaps I’ll become a teacher, and perhaps the books I’ve published online will be read. But I prefer the Apocalypse. Not a WWZ (book, not the shitty fucking movie) Apocalypse, but instead one where we have to reset our lives. A drastic change where we all have to face the impending doom of tomorrow, as opposed to the horror of being 80 without benefits.
Anyway, the days are more limited than ever and I am afraid. Everyone tells me that things will work out for the best, but look at them. Broken down trailer wives who hate their husbands and detest their children. I shouldn’t equate that to the poor, the rich assholes have the same stories except they’re wealthy enough to sleep around the club house with an agreed upon anonymity clause.
So sleep tight, my dear three readers. Just make it another 24.
Quitters Delight- Day 30
I’ve decided to change this tumblr account to one of those that most people hate to read, and write an actual blog. However it will be based off the fact that I’ve decided to quit a somewhat well -paying job in order to go back to school. As I have no job prospects lined up for when I quit, as well as no school that’s fully accepted me, I expect this to be a fairly bleak and as such probably will not interest anyone who has a meme on their account. As I have an account filled with memes, I’ve decided to also read this blog, so feel free to comment as I don’t give a fuck. I completely agree that I suck, maybe not ass but perhaps balls. I should add that to my dear three followers who’ve liked my memes containing witty dialogue and pictures of inspiring quotes, please note that I stole that shit from google images. Still, there’s no purer form of entertainment than theft.
Today marks my thirtieth day until I am officially unemployed. I’m in my ____ and have just moved into a cabin in the woods that my family owns. It’s a bit like Thoreau’s Walden Pond except with more alcohol and less pussy. So instead of writing in a transcendentalist style, which Thoreau certainly helped create, I’d like to call my style of writing masturbationalism. I just prefer the enunciation.
The cabin is quaint, which means it’s small as shit and there are bugs everywhere. In retrospect, I just left a three bedroom house with full central air & heat, high speed Comcast internet and TV, functioning showers, dishwasher, and washer and dryer for a quaint cabin in the middle of the woods of Georgia which possesses none of those things. Currently I’m sitting outside to write this as mosquitoes suck in my whiskey tainted blood, because inside the cabin there contains a smell of my Dollar General hand-sanitizer washed balls which overpower any other senses.
I say let those mosquitos enjoy the bourbon that’s soaking into their livers, if bugs have livers, because fuck them really. I hope they burn in hell to be honest, blood sucking bitches. And they probably will burn in hell, because don’t vampires go to hell. Unless you’re a part of one of those religions that don’t believe in hell, or just consider yourself intelligent, then you might have reason for discord. My philosophy is for us all to smoke a bowl, and then consider that idea brought forth to the table. If you have dank, please share with the other readers. Don’t let them have the green hit though. I’ve been told of an ancient wives’ tale that smoking dank with a schwag smoker is very contagious, and you can easily get the stem and seed sickness. There is no cure. I call it the Otto’s Virus. As there is an actually Flander’s Virus out there somewhere, which I imagine WebMD lists as having a neighbor who hates you and ducks to get a bobby pin while your wife is struck by a shirt cannon and falls off a bleacher stand to her death, why the fuck not have a virus for the coolest bus driver since that doesn’t give Jamaican tour rides?
Getting back to my balls. Work today sucked balls, and trust me, I tried to join in, though I haven’t fully committed to having the rib that Marilyn Manson “allegedly” removed. It’s so hard caring at a job when you’ve fully decided to quit. You just want to smile and participate and get those numbers up, even though you really don’t care a shit if quotas are met or if people get that pat on the back which doesn’t come with a raise or promotion of any kind.
Don’t get me wrong, I dig my bosses. They are cool cats, and the kids I work with are good people too. But when you decide that this life is over, and have officially announced it to the small world you exist in, it becomes more real than just telling your beta fish who is an asshole because you never buy those weird frozen shrimp that look like the sea monkeys I paid a buck and a half and had neither swords nor cool castles.
I did try to be a normal person, really. We had a big banquet to raise money, and I dressed all out. I showed up early and smiled and escorted very wealthy people who enjoy being led without touching you to seats at a fancy dinner table covered in adornments that were all bought at for less than seven dollars at Walmart. We served them a very nice meal. It was some kind of crab nonsense and potatoes smothered shady white sauce with a closer of frozen cheesecake. A man named Maury, a good guy, was the main cook. He’s also addicted to twinkies and crystal meth. I found this out when he sent me to the store to buy some food for the guest. On his list were the twinkies and a minimum of twenty minutes waiting in the parking lot for a man named Ricko. I know that wasn’t Ricko’s real name, but I don’t blame him, drug selling is definitely not acceptable these days.
So the rich old fucks ate their meals and some famous dickhead, who made me hold his suit coat until I got tired of standing with it and tossed it in the big trash can outside while I smoked a joint with the ENTIRE wait staff, came up to podium to speak. He spoke for twenty five minutes. Now, I will be the first to admit that I don’t advocate drug use and instead say that just saying “no” works 13% of the time. Still I was very happy to be slightly high off horrible schwag. He spoke about drug use, and how it’s decaying the future of our youth, while the stoned wait staff refilled glass and glass of various booze to the old fucks pretending to give a shit about his point.
To be honest, I don’t think he even cared. I found out later that his workforce, can you imagine, gave him the wrong script. He was supposed to be addressing the negativity of abortion clinics and how homosexuality will drive us to brink of destruction. As a novice in such areas, I wondered if he realized that he’s reached his own quota of bullshit and should go back to banging whores and hating his wife (alleged in the paper). However I still have to do my job, and thus smiled and laughed and told him afterward what a great speech it was. As he left the podium, he came up to me. Gazing into my accidently non visined eyes, he just asked where his coat was. I was truly fucked.
“I gave it to the maître d,” I very slowly replied, not realizing that there was no maître d in this particular country club. He was openly unhappy, and decided to complain to my boss. My boss was cool though, and asked what had happened to his jacket.
“We just rose over $100,000 tonight, and you’re seriously worried about his jacket?” I asked in reply, understanding that I only have 30 days left.
“$100,000 or not, he’s a very important man. You need to find his jacket. He won’t leave without it.”
So I dug it out of the trash, in my mediocre suit, and washed off the really bad stains of his ragged out coat. I ran back up with it full of glee and THC.
“It was in the garbage,” I replied. “I guess the person I gave it to just thought it was a missing item and threw it out.”
The famous man walked up past my boss, intentionally breaking through my area of comfort, and said, “This suit cost more than a month of your pay.”
“Then I suppose,” I replied hiding an enormous grin, “that you might want to upgrade your clothing line.”
He stormed off with his entourage of people all desperate to become famous, and cussed at my boss to fire me. I felt bad. My boss is five times the man this asshole pretends to be, so I told him that I set it on a table and it was disappeared. I really piled it on thick, and he laughed and said that it would be alright.
“Nobody likes that asshole anyway.”
Then he gave me the leftovers and said that I’m going to need them soon as I have no job prospect. The flaw in his plan lies in the fact that he doesn’t understand the munching capacity of a recently stoned, always drunken self-respected loser.
The irony is that I have trouble buying into anyone who’s bought into the system. I can’t identify with someone who wants to go home and sleep with a wife that he hates (assumed) waking up every five hours because his annoying kids (assuming) won’t shut the fuck up. Why do we put on these fake smiles and dreamed up egos of ourselves when none of us really expected to live past 30?
Bukowski said that isolation is the gift, and to drink more beer, beer is blood. Then why can’t we fuck up? Why can’t we quit jobs we hate that lead to nowhere? Why are we embarrassed if we fall into the pit of shit and have to declare bankruptcy, and that’s if you happen to know how to do it or even have more than $1.15 in your savings account that’s going to some bunk ass credit card company or car payment that will be out of style in two years? I’d prefer a nice bottle of bourbon and sleeping pills to my end as opposed to self-loathing tactics to appease someone, just because other people decide that you should want to gain their status.
So give me the cabin. Give me the drunken mosquitoes and the ball smell of hatred. At least that’s real. Even those hobos at the side of the highway exits are running a racket. Do we all have to close our eyes and pretend that things are just fine so other people will like our Facebook posts? Fuck these reindeer games.
Anyway, I’m heading back in. There’s a whole season of Firefly, which I will watch after ingesting miscellaneous intoxicants, that is waiting for my arrival quite impatiently. So I guess to say for my three readers, till tomorrow, just make it another 24.