I remember it so clearly.
I was sitting in my girlfriend’s kitchen on a sunday morning while she was still sleeping. I was drinking tea and reading a salespage for some law of attraction course on my cracked huawei phone.
I was hunched over with my hood on, down and defeated, feeling like the beginning of a motivational video, just before the cheesy hollywood music and the money and success start rolling in with some asshole yelling at you.
I hate those videos.
Reading the salespage, I felt excited and hopeful yet stupid and pathetic. I would rather be caught watching gay porn than reading this shit.
Why is life so difficult for me? Could it really be that I have inherited some deep family flaw that prevents me from succeeding in life? Or am I just lazy and pointless. Maybe I am too smart to succeed. I like the middle option.
And I don’t mean that I have to become some millionaire rockstar although I wouldn’t actually mind that right about now. I could join a really nice health club and go there every morning. Start the day right.
Some more money would be nice so I could actually go out and do something. Sitting at home noodling away on my guitar and becoming an expert on self-help books isn’t really the way I want to spend the rest of my life. Those books are my crack/cocaine. Just one more hit. One last time.
And I am not even paying rent.
The truth is, I have €150 left in my pocket. That’s it! This is my entire net worth. My entire life savings. No wonder I am so miserable! And dont forget, I am living in continental europe. This money could be easily spent in one night.
I am fully aware that for some people in the world, this is a lot of money. At least I have something. I dont have to go busk in the cold or suck cock at a truck stop.
Yes its true, money is not the answer to everything but it sure is the answer to going out into the world and doing things.
But I could get a job right?
In all honesty, I would rather hang myself than get a shitty job that will just take half of my day and make me even more depressed. I cannot stand routine work that has no scalability for progress. Just can’t do it. Suicide or homeless would be far better.
Wow, what a winning attitude I have.
I am 35 and have built a terrible habit out of depending on others. Most people outgrow this phase in their late teens and early twenties.
I assumed that I would become a famous rock star eventually so none of this matters. But because I always sabotaged my efforts, that never happened. I still want it though. And a big part of me still thinks that none of this matters. Even if I did become famous, not even that really matters.
And that’s when I descend into nihilism and despair. Which brings us to that November morning in the kitchen.
I am so sick and tired of this fucking bullshit. Back and forth with my plans and being a vegan superman Mr.Sunshine world savior.
And then making a complete u-turn, going to Mcdonalds, drinking to numb myself, chaotic thoughts, romanticising the struggle, annihilating other people’s ideas and identities… Back to the Bukowski books, Leonard Cohen songs and my dark lords.
The pendulum swings.
I am like a beautiful garden with landmines. So I keep on seeking. I find glimmers of hope here and there. Lifelines are thrown. I consider drowning and just letting go. But the life force kicks in and I remove the plastic bag to breathe again.
I read and write and practise and fuck my girlfriend and go for walks and watch motivational videos on youtube and meditate (when she is at work) because I tell myself this is the only way to not go insane. Sometimes I ride my bicycle around the city when I can’t afford a limo.
I cannot decide whether I am insane or if everyone else is and I am the normal one.
Small things get my attention and I get obsessed. Like how many paragraphs above start with I. This reminds me of that stupid quote “there’s no I in team.”
Ugh.
Ultimately every book is a self help book. Isn’t that the whole point of reading? But books are in levels of intellectual and spiritual development and that’s how they should be categorised at the book store and on our kindles.
In fact, all art is self help. And all art should be categorised like this. We should just have big art stores with different sections or floors basedon where an individual is at on the scale of progress.
There can be a category for broke fucks like me. And one for stupid happy people who are BELOW me.
Everyone needs to go through the broke as fuck phase. Otherwise you will never understand madness and loneliness. You will never understand what it is like to admire things that trigger you into this masochistic maze where one gets some kind of perverse enjoyment out of being the worst human being that has ever lived, by far. When you tell yourself such things, good intentioned advice no longer apply.
Otherwise you will never understand people like me. I am that crazy homeless guy who smells like urine and makes you feel sad and grateful. Just without the urine.
But who gets to decide which books go where? I doubt anyone wants to be seen in the dumb and happy floor. You might run into some people you would rather not see.
Then again, if you both belong there you will probably smile big and pretend your life is perfect. You will show each other videos of your ugly, annoying children. You will walk away feeling envy and bitterness and secretly want to have shopping mall parking lot car sex with the cute guy you were standing next to on the elevator. You want his fat cock in your mouth, admit it.
Underneath your hypocrisy, you are just like me. So maybe it’s time to level up?
God damn it.
Writing can be such a pain in the ass. It always starts well, I have all this creative juice and desire to express. Like fucking.
I think I need to cum less and save my seed so I can fuck you with my words more. And deeper.
The pendulum swings.
I am still trying to find a name for this book. I have a working title but it is always changing. I want to to be brilliant and funny and crazy. I want a stranger to see it and have a deep urge to open and see what is inside.
For now I’m going with “the broke as fuck phase”. No caps. I will use a pseudonym and when I get too famous, I will hire someone to pretend they are me.
See you in the next chapter. I know I got you now and you can’t stop. You want to see how low I can go.
Wipe well comrade!
(damn that could work too…)