Shitty Jobs, Scarface, Dick Cheney, Fate and the Inconvenient Truth about Karma

Cheney

It’s late Sunday evening, now. The nights are long this time of year and it’s cold out. It’s the season of icy windows that crack when the heater kicks on at two in the morning. When you’re reminded of how nice it is to have another warm body next to you under the comforter, so that you can rub feet together and purr in frigid pleasure.

I should go to bed. Tomorrow is Monday, obviously, and I begin a new week of work. Mornings have an annoying tendency to come early, especially when you’re not particularly enchanted with your given line of work. But to go to bed would be an act of acquiescence—or, at least it feels like one. Even though I know it’s nonsense, it almost feels that the longer I stay awake, the longer I can put off the impending doom of another goddamned Monday morning.

winter frost
This is a weekly ritual for me. It usually begins on Sunday mornings, when I awake and I curse to myself that the weekend is essentially over. Science tells us that Time may be slowing down, but I swear that with each year that I manage to somehow survive, Time finds a second (or 30th) wind. It continues to race further and further from my grasp. I swear that two-day weekends last about as long as a Saturday alone used to. And so I spend the entirety of most Sundays lamenting my fantasy football scores, trying to find motivation to do some writing, and avoiding doing as much work around the house as I can. However, it’s all for naught. Sunday comes and goes much like a forgettable movie, bedtime arrives and before I know it, it’s Monday morning again, and I’m literally dragging myself out of bed and into the shower to begin another day working as a robot therapist for a community mental health agency, a job that at one time seemed to mean something—briefly—before I realized that my job wasn’t to actually help people, it was simply to be a warm body capable of accruing billable medicaid hours for…. Well, there’s no reasonable way to complete that sentence. Though technically a “non-profit” agency, the goal of the place is simply to make as much money as possible, for no discernible reasons. My job performance is evaluated less on the quality of my therapy than on how many notes I’ve entered into the computer that contain the kind of details that keep medicaid auditors off the agency’s back. And I work 50-60 hours every week to such ends, which, as my prior essays suggest, doesn’t exactly jibe well with my philosophy on how to live. It’s a capitalist’s and born middle-manager’s dream — and my waking nightmare.

Jesus! How the fuck did I get here? When did it happen? What did I ever do to deserve such a fate? I’m not perfect, but I’ve done my best. I never purposely hurt anyone. My intentions were mostly magnanimous. And yet…


When I think back to when I was 17 years old, it’s the most depressing thing in the world. That time in my life was the only time that I can remember having a prolonged absence of depressive and melancholic symptoms. It was a great time for me to be alive. I was a senior in high school, and anything seemed possible. I was going to be done with the tediousness and frustration of compulsory schooling. I was going to leave my small, shitty, limited and limiting hometown to go out and bust the world in two with blows from my bare hands. Even the females were giving me attention at rates that I hadn’t experienced before or since.

I could write a whole book about it. I knew I was going to be rich and famous. I knew I was going to bang famous Hollywood actresses. I also knew I was going to use that wealth and notoriety to do charitable and heroic work, because unlike the vast majority of other people, deep down I was actually a good person. I wasn’t greedy or petty or mean. I was actually interested in fame because I thought it would be a good avenue to change the world… and to bang famous Hollywood actresses. And I was going to become so rich and famous by….Well, again, we find ourselves with no reasonable way to finish that sentence because I didn’t actually know how I was going to go about accomplishing as much. I wasn’t even a good student at that point, so I have no idea where I thought I’d find the motivation, will, and cleverness to do something exponentially more difficult. I just knew—down to the very atoms and molecules that composed me—that I was destined for such a life.

What’s important to note (other than the obscene levels of my narcissistic delusions) is that while my goals were generally broad and unfocused and murky, there were a few that were quite clear and specific. I knew that I wasn’t going to be living in the creative barrenness of my hometown. I knew I wasn’t going to work some sad, pathetic 9-5 (or 8-8) job, just to pay for bills. I knew I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a life on fire—a life that others would gaze upon and seethe with hate and loathing and envy. My life would be a model for others to emulate. It would be big, bold, and heroic. I literally told “The Gods” that I simply would not live such a life, and I dared them to try to do anything about it.

A sad, profoundly disappointing experience at college, the death of a parent and falling in love with a single mom has a tendency to sober a person up. While it’s fine to dream—and for those with the proper talent, even necessary to do so—it’s not so helpful to be drunk on those dreams.

So here I am, living in the same shitty small town I grew up in, staring down another spiteful week of completing copious amounts of paperwork and meetings, broken only intermittently with actual episodes of me attempting to do psychotherapy with hurt and bent human beings. 50-60 hours of such I have to look forward to, which I do just so I can pay the bills.

Incredible.

I don’t think I believe in the idea of “gods” or “fate,” but I’ve since learned not to tempt them, regardless.

Mr. Furious

Mr. Furious

Mr. Furious lives in rural southern Colorado and tries to live as boring, apathetic and lazy a life as possible. He is hoping one day to be invited to do a "Life Class" for "Super Soul Sundays" on the Oprah Winfrey Network. You can read his short fiction, poetry and short essays at www.puerileandpointless.blogspot.com. He wrote a really stupid novel called " Puerile and Pointless with no Hope for Enlightenment" that you can purchase at Amazon and waste your time with. He can be contacted and/or harassed at misterfurious1@yahoo.com.
Mr. Furious