Get Your Sweaty Raisinettes off The Sidewalk

People who haven’t experienced deep depression and suicidal thoughts are lucky, and also intellectually inferior.


I was driving home from work last week when I was overcome with the urge to jerk the steering wheel sharply to the right, hoping for a fatal confrontation with the tree coming up in the next 100 feet.  I had enough clearance but auto accidents are so unpredictable.  There were cars behind me with plenty of time to slow down, but there were also cyclists, runners and speed-walkers upping their endorphins on the sidewalk.  I imagined the cars behind me desperately trying to stop and inadvertently taking out some of the pedestrians.

I probably would just end up as a disfigured eggplant anyway, stewing in my own shit at some assisted living home until my organs began shutting down one by one, like that time my cat licked anti-freeze leaking from our neighbor’s car. The pedestrians sweating it out on the sidewalk, who presumably still have a few fucks left to give judging by their bouncy gait and yearning to stay in shape, would be dead in my place. It didn’t seem like a plan with favorable consequences so I kept driving in my auto-piloted daze, hoping for an irresponsible texter to hit me head-on instead.

I feel as though I am sleepwalking through my life.  What can I do to avoid repeating the same uneventful and meaningless day over and over and over again?  This shit cycle never fucking ends.  I see no grand finale in sight unless I create it myself.  There’s nothing that distinguishes one day from the next anymore.  No upcoming vacations to get excited over or events to use as an excuse to buy something new.

It’s just this and nothing more.  I’ve never thought my existence was all that remarkable to begin with, but at least when I was enjoying myself 20% of the time, I could forget how miserable I was during the other 80%.  Now it’s more like a 2% to 98% ratio, and that’s not much of a carrot on a stick for me.   And I realize it’s my own fault for not seizing life by the wrinkled Raisinettes and drinking up the experiences, but I’m tired and drained.  Mostly just apathetic towards the whole damn thing I guess.

If a stranger looked at my life through some mid-priced binoculars then it would seem fairly satisfactory.  I have a kickass house with secret nooks and crannies, a bathroom with a stained-glass window and a patterned shower curtain ideal for hallucinogenics, a magical pet luck dragon, no major physical disabilities, entertaining top-shelf friends and a job that doesn’t require me to wear a name tag and a smile, although I do have to wear a security badge and mind my language…and also spend 9 hours of my day surrounded by mediocrity…but who doesn’t hate their job, really?   But if the stranger put down his binoculars and hung out with me for a day, peeling back the layers of insecurities and anxieties, then he’d probably want to leap off a cliff by the end of the day too.  Maybe he’d even offer to push me if I asked nicely??  Right now you might be wondering why the stranger is a male.  I don’t know, he just is.  And he looks a lot like Ryan Gosling.

The real message underlying this whiny discourse is that people who want to exercise outside should make use of the numerous parks we have here.  Yes, we do have bike lanes and sidewalks running along the city streets, but there might be someone wanting to purposely plow her Highlander into a tree.  All I ask is for these obnoxious fitness enthusiasts to stop being so selfish and fucking up my spontaneous suicide plans.  Your commitment to toned abs and winning the stupid HR fitness challenge at work is ruining my life!

I hope that fancy wicking fabric causes a rash.  Assholes.



Nobody Will Know I’m Dead

I haven’t posted anything ever since I lost the ability to string letters together to make words, and then string those together to make coherent sentences…or at least I keep telling myself I’ve lost it.  I’ve misplaced a lot of things over the past several months, the least of which is my ability to function in social situations without becoming absurdly anxious about every little fucking thing.  Being around people is exasperating these days.  The only reason I even manage to make it to work is because I know I need money to pay for the house I have to keep so I have a place to hide from the world.   I know I spend entirely too much time alone in a quiet and dimly lit bedroom with only my dog for company.  I say “only my dog” but he’s basically everything to me, which maybe is why I don’t feel the need to leave the house much anymore.

I was reading an article about a man named George Bell who dies in his NYC apartment and nobody notices his absenteeism until a fetid stench starts wandering through the building, and then a neighbor also happens to notice that his car hasn’t moved in days.  I wonder how and when anyone will know when I’m dead.  Will it be the mailman who calls the police when he can no longer squeeze more bills and Papa John’s coupons into my mailbox…or will he take note of the fact that he’s had no Amazon boxes for me in the past two weeks?  Will my neighbors notice the accumulation of dust and pollen on my stationary vehicle and get suspicious?  Will the Terminix technician peek in a window and catch sight of a blackened and bloated foot sticking out past the edge of my sofa?  I hope I don’t have to wait too long to be found because I don’t really want an article written about my lonely and desolate existence.

Okay, I thought maybe writing something would lift my spirits.  This was a bad idea…