They don’t make titles like they used to

Up early again because the walls of my house don’t absorb sound. I can hear a spoon clanking against a bowl in the kitchen from my bedroom with the door closed. If anyone moves or talks or breathes or blinks anywhere in the house through six closed doors and up two flights of stairs, I can hear it. When the layabout gay next door tinkles his wrinkled old dick on the piano, the halting, awkward, inept sounds he produces go straight into my earhole.

Someone is fucking in the basement. Farting in the next room over. My gay male roommates voice booms in a skype conversation. Even if he weren’t offensively loud I’d still hear him because everything is audible in this house. But he also happens to be the most carelessly, sloppily loud human being I’ve ever encountered. Theatrically, performance of a lifetime, oscar award winning loud every moment of his life.

He walks like a drunken elephant. When he first moved in I thought he was falling down the stairs or tossing cinderblocks around but it was just him walking. The man must wear anchors for shoes or have serious motor control issues. He left for a week and it was a paradise of sweet silence. Now he’s back and we’re right back where we left off.

I’m surrounded by loud, inconsiderate gays, polyamorous freakazoids and tranny hookers. I sleep on a futon every night and walk to work in a cafe that serves trust fund kids, instagram models and fashion bloggers. I have no health insurance or savings. Visions of future toil, debility, and isolation haunt me in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night. My bones ache in the cold dawn.

I remember just enough to feel sad about everything I’ve forgotten and all the life that’s already behind me. Why can’t my memory disintegrate? Why can’t I live the life of a snail, a streak of slime on a damp rock? Memory is a dagger that stabs my brain without warning. Remembering the past is like picking up a shattered mirror.

Still not getting to the gym. Still not sleeping enough. Yes I know that not exercising and not sleeping murders people. Are you aware that not getting 10 hours of restful sleep a night, on a quantum mechanic engineered tempurpedic bed with foam memory mattress and down pillows in a room with secret service SUV tinted blackout curtains and a sleep mask and dehumidifier and white noise generator playing sounds of the rainforest or whales making delicate sweet love, your organs will rapidly liquify and seep out of your anus? And you will die slowly.

Yes, I know that not getting enough sleep makes me inattentive and forgetful. I know that in the fog of my fatigue I’m going to distractedly walk in front of a speeding bus and create a pollack painting on the street with my blood and entrails. I’ll lose a finger or a hand or get my dick ripped off by a thresher or combine or ice machine because I can’t focus on anything other than keeping my eyes open. My heart will fail and my brain will shrivel up and I’ll just be an irritable asshole until the swiftly approaching day of my untimely demise.

No one ever lived a decent life, a life of love or connection or achievement without enough sleep and the right diet and supplements and yoga and meditation routines. A mountain of self help manuals.  Ted talks and life hacks and empowering blog posts. Never forget that you’re alone in an unfeeling, chaotic universe but you have the power to give meaning to your life. God abandoned you and you abandoned your family but you can pretend that you’re connected to something greater than yourself.

With enough meditation, yoga, testosterone jacking weight training, low carb dieting, nootropics, vitamin D, fish oil, epsom salt baths and contrast showers, stirring blog posts about making money and fucking people you don’t even like, you will forget that your life is a snot bubble about to pop.

No one ever smoked cigarettes, ate pizza, stayed poor and celibate and ever had a brilliant thought that redeemed the squalor of their lives. No one found dignity, goodness, or love with bad posture or shallow breathing or if they sat for more than half an hour straight. People are only funny when they are full of esteem for themselves and love for the world.

Everyone is sleep deprived, overworked, underemployed, stressed and depressed. Escaping into video games and porn and booze. Unfulfilled at work and unlaid. Except for the demi god race of advanced humanity that eats everything organic and grass fed and does introspective drugs and hosts podcasts. You can’t and won’t be like them but you love taking that quick fix hit of inspiration when you’re feeling especially defeated.

I’ve been focusing more on my breathing and posture and it seems to be helping. I’ve also forced myself to feel less angry and anxious and more relaxed in the present. Who knows where these exciting developments will take me.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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