It’s paining men

Saturday morning. I have to be up early for work but I’m up even earlier. I wake up to write because I turn into a barnacle clinging to my couch after work, waiting for the sun to sink beneath the horizon so I can slip back to sleep.

My job saps me. The blur of transactions, the whir of thank you’s and what can we get for yous. People say they’re introverts or extroverts. Or introverted extroverts. Meaningless classifications for our rattling shells formerly known as personalities. Whatever you¬† call yourself, there are only so many pleasantries you can exchange in a day.

When I leave work I go home and sit in a musty recliner in a darkened room with my pants unbuttoned. My cat has been doing god knows what all day and wants affection. She sits on my lap and I shove her off. Domestic violence makes sense. You work all day, grinding your patience to the bone and then you come home and dependent  animals needle your eardrums with their plaintive whines.

No wonder men beat their wives, children and pets. Men with hard lots, grimy and dangerous jobs, working long, irregular hours in ice and fire. They come home and there’s more service, more requests and demands, toddlers tugging at your shit specked overalls. A house full of cats meowing, children crying and women nagging.

No wonder men slink off into dank bars and drink until their faces are fuzzy and the cold kernels in their chests warm up. We ask why people drink, why they smoke or inject or snort and swallow mood altering substances. Because our nerves are shattered. We need to sand and smooth the jagged edges of our awareness. If it’s not heroin then it’s 4 hours of the gauzy glow of tv.

The jutting pain of knowing you’ll work and die without understanding why. An unconscious rumbling, an abyss yawning beneath you. And yet our mundane suffering prepares us for salvation. Work drains us but without it we’d have no excuse for our misery.

A selfish life without obligations is its own hell. I’d rather work for others than obsess over my fantasies. I’ll try not to beat anyone.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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