I wake up not knowing where I am. The mirrors making the distances impossible. Light patterns from the blinds could be the jungle or anywhere. Not recognizing the lamps. Then it half occurs to me that I’m in the same apartment. 12 years. I have no children. It’s me alone here still. Everything is exactly the same. I’m 42 years old.
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my life in a nutshell. well except for the 42 part but soon enough.
Quit your job? Change apartments? Leave LA? Take antidepressants? Lie to women about your age? Any combination of the above?
Jerry: I had a very interesting lunch with George Costanza today.
Kramer: Really?
Jerry: We were talking about our lives and we both kind of realized we’re kids. We’re not men.
Kramer: So, then you asked yourselves, “Isn’t there something more to life?”
Jerry: Yes. We did.
Kramer: Yeah, well, let me clue you in on something. There isn’t.
Jerry: There isn’t?
Kramer: Absolutely not. I mean, what are you thinking about, Jerry:? Marriage? Family?
Jerry: Well…
Kramer: They’re prisons. Man made prisons. You’re doing time. You get up in the morning. She’s there. You go to sleep at night. She’s there. It’s like you gotta ask permission to use the bathroom. Is it all right if I use the bathroom now?
Jerry: Really?
Kramer: Yeah, and you can forget about watching TV while you’re eating.
Jerry: I can?
Kramer: Oh, yeah. You know why? Because it’s dinner time. And you know what you do at dinner?
Jerry: What?
Kramer: You talk about your day. How was your day today? Did you have a good day today or a bad day today? Well, what kind of day was it? Well, I don’t know. How about you? How was your day?
Jerry: Boy.
Kramer: It’s sad, Jerry. It’s a sad state of affairs.
Jerry: I’m glad we had this talk.
Kramer: Oh, you have no idea.
Happy birthday, DT. I’m really enjoying the novel so far. It’s like watching a mind’s projection of the future detangle itself in real time. And there’s this sinister undercurrent of desire, of an almost desperate craving for a supermassive disaster to break the chains of monotony in modern living.
These days it feels to me like all the men in the world, old and young, from tribe to tribe, are thirsting for another great conflict. Something to burn the underbrush. Even if it doesn’t bring balance, even if it only brings death, destruction, devastation, at least it will bring something different, and when the smoke clears, at least we’ll know where we stand.
42 is young though for a ripped guy like you who lifts. Consider that Jeff Winger was clearly depicted as over 40 in Community and spent the show alternating between banging Britta and that tasty little 19-year-old Annie. And this was on a mainstream show in the US that Daily Show Democrats liked. Get out of the first world hell hole English-speaking countries and it’s even better. I managed to have my first kid at 45 with a Central American woman 14 years my junior, and you don’t even have thinning hair like me IIRC. You’re fine, still got plenty of time for a family if you want one. Just got to make it happen.
If you have a kid this instant, you’ll be 60 before they turn 18.
So? Put off seriously aging until you’re well into your seventies. Lift weights, don’t eat garbage, daily intermittent fasting. No alcohol or tobacco. I plan on surfing in Costa Rica when most of you are in rest homes.
My cat cleans herself
In my ex’s parents’ garage
Life is horrible.
A quick haiku from lower down the ladder. 🙂 Happy birthday – good to see you’re still around.
The worst part of this whole post is you having actually posted it. That alone pretty much says it all about you and your endless whining.
This coming from a rat faced loser in his early 40s, Got some jungle kids, vagabonding all over the planet, doing everything and everybody. Got bitches, got money, got whatever seems like it could be a good time. If your lame ass is sitting in the same shithole as you were ten years ago, it’s because you’re willing to take zero chances, living an actual interesting life, doing anything any more risky than signing a contract for some shitty car payments.
Fortune favors the bold, m——-th–rfucker.
Hi Jake, we miss you.
‘rat faced loser’ – that’s my Jakey. Who, true to form, has been marauding around the East while Tacos has wallowed – sans a brief foray in the Philippines – in the hollowed-out shell of declining western society.
The term has been gayed in recent years, but it’s about ‘mindset’.
Tacos, get out. Even if only to spark the creativity. Those four asbestos filled walls ain’t doing sh*t for your writing.
Jake, bring back the blog. Come on da f*ck, the Internet is a wasteland and we need the realness.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Tacos. Much has changed in the six years since I started reading you. I remember what you said in one of your pieces about how you get better at writing with time. I don’t respond well to most inspirational messages but that one struck me.
Aside from motivation, I’m grateful for all those beautiful, dark, evocative phrases and images you’ve given us for nothing.
+1
your comment section is a cancer and I’m part of it for not even remembering how I found your site but waking up late for my commute and seeing blackout drunk texts to a girl at work linking you saying “this is it,” like I was a prophet or meditating on the mountains when really I finished a half handle of knockoff fucking Fireball
happy birthday, DT, your work is at least a signpost on the way to hell and I love it. anon commenters please reply with “kys faggot” so I feel validated
Children. The joy of life. Little packages of tissue, fluids, with a small bundle of half-functioning, half-formed neurons sitting atop over-sized heads. Peering at you with big martian like eyes, like a junkie who dropped acid a few hours ago. A reminder of your mistake – a mistake that you made one drunken night, with another drunk woman after both of you drunk some pinot noir, and made sweet love with bitter tips of tongue. And realized the next morning that you hated her. And she realized the next morning that sex was good.
Who cares if people have children. There are already seven billion morons on this planet: Two billion of them have an average penis the size of “not so impressive” inches. Imagine that – two billion of them and they still can’t make it to the other side of the pussy. Instead they get college degrees in computer science, get a quasi-respectable paycheck and create more of their own little clones. Cause you know – children: they look at you and they pee on you #cute.
At least a dog won’t ask you to pay for college.
You need to start going to more meetings, rookie. I don’t see any sign in you from your writing of the spiritual awakening in Step 12.
That’s probably because you haven’t done the steps right. My guess is that you haven’t really done Step 2. You haven’t turned your life over to your higher power, probably because you don’t believe in a higher power who can save you from your disease, you whiny, shitty ingrate.
The incessant whinging of an LA fag
Shut the fuck up and let me complain.
Here’s why youre a talented writer but can’t produce anything beyond what appeals to Reddit or Roosh sewer-dwellers:
You have a 10th grader’s hard nihilistic viewpoint that prevents you from lifting your eyes off the ground. You have no vision and, even worse, you’re so fatuous and self-indulgent, despite having accomplished nothing, that you pre-emptively dismiss the possibility that any person can have vision. For you every human is blind; this allows for a convenient egotism that you’re more honest about your blindness
Hell, you have no vision beyond jealousy. Congratulations you’re a 42yo Mean Girl.
Owing to your lack of vision you repititively indulge in creature comforts, or complain when they are absent
Also I’m an epic faggot
DT, at this point you just need to shut the fuck up.
You’re a lifestyle masochist. You ENJOY living a life that you hate. You make enough money from book sales to live like a king in any number of countries where you’d be happy. But you don’t. Because YOU PREFER TO BE SAD.
Maybe you’re scared that if you were actually happy, you’d have nothing to write about. Guess what? BEING HAPPY IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN HAVING A BLOG WHERE YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT YOUR VOLUNTARILY-TERRIBLE LIFE.
you’re a lifestyle masochist. You ENJOY getting spanked by your daddy, the IRS. Quit pretending that you’re seeking happiness and admit that you ENJOY being miserable.
Happiness is a plane ticket and a visa away — both things you can easily afford. But you don’t buy them. You don’t do them.
I used to think you were a cool dude who wrote cool bukowski/mccarthy-style shit.
But now I realize you’re a sad sack of shit who ENJOYS marinating in his own misery.
You know the scene in Good Will Hunting where Ben Affleck is like “my fantasy is to wake up one day and find (Matt Damon) gone without a trace to go live the life he actually wants to live?”
My fantasy is to wake up one day and find your entire blog deleted, because then I’ll know that you’re out there actually PURSUING HAPPINESS like a HUMAN FUCKING BEING instead of doing what you’re doing now, which is masochistically choosing to live a life you hate.
Grow a pair and go chase happiness like an actual human being, instead of marinating in your own misery like you’ve become addicted to.
-a former DT fan who is now a DT hater.