40

20 Feb

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.

19 Responses to “40”

  1. Your sisters panties February 20, 2016 at 11:05 am #

    Sucks not being a hot blonde

  2. TomInNOLA February 20, 2016 at 12:26 pm #

    Haha you are old and ghey. I’m 32 sitting on a beach in Alabama reading your shit on my phone with a barely literate 21 y.o. cokehead sorority dropout by my side. She is pulling her Paisley bikini out of her round ass and I am running it in your old ghey face. hbd

    • Nikolai Vladivostok February 20, 2016 at 9:32 pm #

      You see, DT? There are plenty of brilliant writers on the internet. Here’s one hiding in plain sight on your own comment thread.

    • gandolph the Ghey February 21, 2016 at 8:16 am #

      +Tom : You’re not coming to my 40th unless you jump out a cake.

  3. Anonymous February 20, 2016 at 2:11 pm #

    happy birthday. ❤️

    everything is garbage. life means nothing. you are still my favorite writer.

  4. Seven Dials February 20, 2016 at 2:24 pm #

    “Joan you have beautiful breasts”
    “Mr Perrin!”

    http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fall-Rise-Reginald-Perrin-Complete/dp/B000P0JQAK

    This was the comedy to watch in the mid-70’s. My father said he couldn’t watch it as it was just too close to how he felt. What the fuck did we know how he felt because we were just his family not a middle-aged man, so we had no idea what he was seeing.

    I was seven or so months sober at 40. Out of work, unmarried, no sex, I had a house with a mortgage and I may or may not have had a rent-paying lodger at the time. It was a long time ago now.

    And FFS stay away from fat chicks. You’re at least as pretty and in better shape than I was at 40 and I never fucked fat girls. Of any nationality. Just because you’re a worthless ex-drunk doesn’t mean you get to behave like a freaking sexual degenerate.

    I bought your book. Write another one and I’ll buy that.

  5. Schlafwandler February 20, 2016 at 3:02 pm #

    Not entirely true. Your back catalogue – eg. the last bit
    with the cackling djinn in the “Asian Ass Forever” piece –
    Sears Wishbook of depravity. Here’s to 40 more, squire.

  6. seriouslypleasedropit February 20, 2016 at 8:08 pm #

    >I have a mildly popular blog and I can play Bach on guitar– the achievements of a 17 year old.

    Popular among which crowd?

    “[Blah] would be dangerous if there was some issue on which [blah] were right, and everyone else was wrong. Truth is always dangerous. Contrary to common belief, it does not always prevail. But it’s always a bad idea to turn your back on it.”

    • adolph histamine February 20, 2016 at 9:47 pm #

      +seriouslypleasedropit: What is the point of your goofy drivel

  7. Ed February 21, 2016 at 3:31 am #

    Lol, I spent last night in the drizzle scraping mud and rubbish off concrete behind a disused soviet era building, burning some of the rubbish to check for asbestos and stealing pallets from outside the corner shop to build the floor of my new shack. I woke up with mud all over my hands and no skin on the tip of one finger. Now im going to drink cold water, eat a cold banana with a handful of raisins before heading down the road to where my bike is locked out of the rain to cycle to the library where I will shit, wash, charge phone, apply for jobs, eat the same cheap supermarket bought brunch I eat every day, send a pic of tartan sheep to entertain a girl I pulled a couple of weeks ago whom I will probably never bang and whose personality is cunty gollum compared to the queen ariel of the girl i dated for a year but didn’t move city to stay with- not to mention share an actual room in an actual apartment with an actual toilet with instead of this hobo shack -, worry about my daughter who ive seen once in the last 2 plus years being groomed by pedos or becoming a tattooed lesbian in my absence, then rush back to continue shack building work before the rain starts. I love the world and though I would never be so vulgar as to end my life, I yearn for the day when I return to mud in the guts of worms.

    • Kaiserslautern February 22, 2016 at 8:43 am #

      +Ed : I anoint thee “Soze of Trolls”

  8. IMGrody February 21, 2016 at 8:23 am #

    Ever hear of the law of reversed effort?

  9. emptysubject February 21, 2016 at 1:59 pm #

    Your voice is eerily like the one that drones in my head. You helped me discover who I am.

  10. FRV February 21, 2016 at 11:44 pm #

    Try drugs. Medication or some shit.

    Everything you think or feel is just the sum of biochemical balances. I’m going to spare this comment section the pseudointellectual tripe that people usually employ to encapsulate the electrical and chemical factors that constitute the brain and just say: do drugs.

    Good ones. There are a million different types of antidepressants. Shit that takes the pain away like magic. Things that make you level-headed. God can shit directly on your head and you don’t skip a beat.

    Then there are the stimulants. Methylphenidate, like coffee but a dozen times better. You know how every fucking person with a high-school level education knows about dopamine and mentions it every time someone says ‘happiness’ and ‘brain’ in the same sentence? There’s a reason for that. It drives enthusiasm, energy. The kind of focus that draws you in and makes all the shit things in your life fade into the background.

    But what do I know. You’ve done coke and heroin and who knows what the fuck else, you know the score. But just try it man.

    Also respond to my tweets ;~;

    • Mob Barley March 1, 2016 at 2:16 pm #

      On that Vyvanse+Modafinil flow.
      And when the shit gets too real Ketamine becomes my best friend for the evening.

  11. Mob Barley March 1, 2016 at 2:13 pm #

    Discovering this blog is like landing in existentialist paradise. Thank you dude.
    Thank you for living a difficult life and sharing it.

  12. Anonymous March 5, 2016 at 6:28 pm #

    This is my favorite Cat Marnell piece circa XOjane;
    http://www.xojane.com/entertainment/whitney-houston-dead
    Thanks for the re-read of Goodbye to All That (the End for Now), I had to take a moment to digest it all.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. 40 – Manosphere.com - February 20, 2016

    […] 40 […]

  2. Quiet Word from the Dark Side, 2/19/16 | SovietMen - February 20, 2016

    […] Delicious Tacos turns forty. […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: