Albert Einstein, the father of relativity, once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Now, I didn’t throw any quotes up around that line because I know it’s not verbatim but, fuck sakes, the book it’s in is sitting in a box at the other place and I’m just trying to illustrate a point here. See, his words have been ricocheting inside my skull since quarter past seven Thursday night when I quit my job without having a safety net - again. Even now, sitting here with my laptop warming my nuts, I can feel the familiar stirrings of panic churning espresso and bile into a bubbling brew that threatens to burst my guts and paint the walls of my cell bloody. I’m trying to keep my matter at rest but I don’t know how to keep my brain from squaring the speed of light into a mind bending oblivion.
In all honesty, I believe that I must be severely fucked in the head to keep doing this to myself. Around about every five years since I was sixteen I follow the same steps: Someone will try to make me do something that goes against what passes for my moral code, offer me an ultimatum and I fold their bluffing hand by up and quitting on them - bosses, friends, wife or whomever. And every time it happens I imagine myself pulling off some miraculous save to maintain my "standard of living" but (woe unto this poor besotted husk) all for shit. I’ve starved and shivered in filthy traps, mooched and malingered my way onto couches and laps, slung dope and thrown hands to make ends meet but nothing good comes from despair and I’m left worse off than I was - every fucking time, brothers and sisters, every goddamned fucking time. I am the living embodiment of Mr. Einstein’s definition.
Now, I’m not looking for sympathy or head patting - no “there there Air” shit or whatnot - because I don’t deserve it - this is my mess. But I do wanna’ make something perfectly clear: I never meant to hurt anyone else with the chain of causality which has led to this resulting resignation. I got high on what I thought was freedom, spread my shit down thick, irrigated with liquor and cropped up a big old field of pipe dreams that saw me treat the workplace as my own personal pretty girl preserve. Through action and inaction I have managed to achieve both bliss and botheration on an unprecedented scale where every 2.55 centimetres translates into light years of humiliation and regrets. I shit you not, brothers and sisters, but this faithless servant leader has had enough of all the old excuses.
What I need is a good ass kicking to drive the sense of decorum I lost when I started drinking back into me. I need the priesthood holding Mormon Boy Scout back and don’t have clue fucking one where that kid might be. Hiding under some mouldering bed of lies in my back brain is my best guess - he just won’t come when I call, even when I invoke the three given names. Maybe he doesn’t think he deserves any head patting either. Maybe he fears some lurking duplicity’s waiting to snatch him back to the same name-brand of hell we grew up in? Can’t say as I blame him - poor kid.
So what next? Let’s follow the pattern forward a bit, shall we, oh my brothers and sisters. I’ll take a few days off, it being Friday and all, and tell myself to start looking for work on Monday. Odds are that in the meantime I’ll find someone willing to front me a beer or two in exchange for this weary tale of woe-begotten expectations come to shit and I’ll wind up going on a tear worthy of the Old Gods’ waking up to notice. Sunday might see me feeling well enough to choke down cigarettes I can’t afford while I try to navigate the uncharted seas of wretched excess by the light of fading childhood constellations that inevitably lead me to recall transgression upon trespass upon dumbfuckery. Some decent hearted woman or other will inevitably find me handsome sad enough to suffer my attentions until whiskey-dick sends her laughing back to whatever tattooed stunt cock calls her Babyluv. I’ll update my resume, sweat through my good clothes and watch potential employers scribble 110 (where a simple \ turns the number into "no") in the upper right corner until I bow to necessity and fit myself into another polyester uniformed niche pouring coffee or flipping beef patties for pennies. It’s so familiar that it’s almost comforting.
Fuck me running, not this again. Thanks for the insight Mr. Einstein and thanks for nothing. I always hated your moustache.
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