Tuesday, March 13, 2018

I'm Back, Motherfuckers!

Yeah, I know, opening a post by implying that all of you good people are secretly doinking your own mothers is kind of an aggressive way to announce my return to the blogosphere, but after such a long absence I figure the first post I write is going to set the tone for everything that comes after, and I don't want anybody wandering in here thinking they're going to find the same old posts by the same old Gabe they got so comfortable with all those years ago. I am NOT the person who wrote those old posts. I am older, I have more scar tissue on both my body and my soul, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to tiptoe around the fragile sensibilities of the more conservative people I'm friends with on Facebook. No disrespect to you if you're one of them, but if the word fuck is too much for you to bear, please just block my posts from showing up in your feed. We can still be friends, but these posts are for people who are interested in what's going on in my head, and my head is a place where fuck is one of the kinder, gentler words getting bandied about on a minute-by-minute basis.

Okay, now that we've gotten that out of the way, I expect anyone still reading is cool with me just being me, for better or (maybe especially) for worse.


- Year One -


No writing.

- Year Two -

More love!!!

I write two short stories, neither of which reaches the point of being fit for publication. Net result: No writing.

All my favorite celebrities die.

My mother dies.

Creditors assure me that, due to my extreme credit card debt, I have qualified for emergency assistance and, provided I do not miss any future payments, interest will stop accruing and my debts will be paid off in no more than five years. I breathe a sigh of relief and they immediately charge-off my account and sell the debt to a collection agency. FUCK!

My son has been accepted to Stanford!!!

The company I work for gets bought-out. The corporation that did the buying tell us to expect business as usual and that nothing will change, but I read between the lines and determine that there's a Texas-sized downsizing on the horizon. Corporate denies everything. Business as usual, they say. I refuse to be lulled into a false sense of security.

Trump wins the election.

At least next year can't get any worse.

- Year Three -

Trump takes office.

It gets worse.

Corporate informs us that our entire department is going to be outsourced to North Carolina, but they're not telling us when. We'll just have to wait and find out. I hate to say I told you so, but...

Romantic love cools and solidifies into platonic love.

I haven't written anything worth submitting for publication in years!%&@*!

False starts at new novels, all of which fizzle out after a few chapters. Net result: No writing.

Platonic love isn't enough. The love of my life and I break up the day before I drive my son to California to begin his first year at Stanford. It is mutual but nonetheless crushing. I don't think I believe in romantic love anymore.

Several attempts at dating with absolutely no positive results.

Turns out the breakup wasn't as mutual as I thought it was. I feel like a steaming sack of shit, and the worst part is that I can only blame myself.

I forget to pay my property taxes for an entire year! Yay!

Hanging in a professional and personal Limbo the like of which I have never experienced, I want to believe 2018 can't possibly get any worse, but I seem to recall having a similar thought before.

- And A Half -

I turn thirty-nine.

Notice arrives in the mail that a collection agency is suing me for my credit card debt. Panic ensues. Lawyers are consulted. I spend three weeks enduring sweaty terror-shits.

My boss calls me into the conference room and tells me that the hammer has finally fallen, that I will be out of a job by May 11th, maybe sooner (depending on how many people in my department up and quit between now and then).

With the impending end of my fifteen years of dedicated employment no longer just an amorphous doom cloud floating hazily in the future and my faith in the redemptive power of romantic love completely shattered, my fight-or-flight sense kicks into gear and I realize that if ever there was a moment to pull my head out of my ass and start pursuing my dreams seriously, this is it. In the words of Black Cougar Shock Unit (they're a band, I swear), I'm done fucking around.

What better way to stop fucking around than to update my blog?

Yes. Weep. A blog post as a life-affirming declaration of intent. This is the future, and the future is fucked.


And now you're all caught-up (or as caught-up as I care to get you)! Where does it go from here? Who knows. I have plans, but as Public Enemy once titled an album, Man Plans, God Laughs. I'll keep you updated. And this time, I might actually do it.


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1 comment:

  1. I like you. I like your update, even though life has sucked so bad. I hope the future surprises you. And Fuck doesn't bother me.