Notes from my mom’s basement

I need to unpack. My books are in boxes, my clothes are in trash bags. The laziness is in my dna. The sluggishness is cellular. My molecules don’t want to move. I don’t want a job.

Why is it always your mom’s basement? Why not your dad’s? The dad owns the basement just as much as the mom, but the mom always gets the credit for sheltering the failed adult children.

When you want to discredit someone on the internet you accuse him of living in his mom’s basement. Because no one ever said anything credible from their mom’s basement. We should only listen to people who don’t live in the basements of people who brought them into the world. Only the people who move away from their loved ones are right.

What is the measure. You don’t live in your mom’s basement but you live in a tin shack on the hill. You converted the barn where your dad kept the lawnmower into a bedroom and it smells like gas and wet mulch.

You’re 30 and you live with other 30 somethings in an old ranch house on the outskirts of town. 4 of you share one rusted out 97 chevy cavalier and if someone else has the car then you take the bus to your job as a line cook in a diner. You come home everyday stained with vegetable oils, smelling like fried meat.

What if you made a bunch of money and had a nice house but then you got a divorce. Your wife left you. You were exciting until you settled down. It’s nature; when you’re married your testicles shrink and your scrotum shrivels and your wife hates you.

Nature doesn’t need you to be a roving seed spiller once you wed yourself to a single woman. But having just one woman isn’t attractive to women so the one woman you had sees you as a castrated wretch. You still have the nice house but it’s empty and the spacious rooms reverberate with the regret of every bad choice you’ve ever made.

I don’t think I’m getting better at this. They say you have to practice. You have to put in x number of hours, sweating and straining with clenched teeth and then you’ll be competent. They say this to make you feel better. And life is about nothing if not feeling better. But you won’t improve. You either have talent or you don’t.

Just try to say something original about trump. Try to say something clever about sjw’s or political correctness or fake news or neoliberalism or fascism or cultural marxism. The people who are recognized for talking about these oversaturated subjects have skills and connections you’ll never have no matter how early you wake up in the morning to practice your prose. Good luck with promoting your take on the decadence of democracy or the corruption of elites.

Drop a stick of butter in your coffee and recite your winner’s mantra and strike your power poses. Improve your posture and take russian nootropics.

Work for weeks on a smart, well researched essay. I’ve read so many smart essays by smart people and none of them got anything from me. I paid them nothing and didn’t even say anything nice to them.

Well then, labor out of love. Do it because you love it. I love typing into the void and then wondering what it means. Passion has taken me to my mom’s basement. You read about those people who find success later in life. The struggling single mom writing on napkins after putting her children to sleep. Some publisher discovers her relatable stories and then everything changes.

That won’t happen to you. Start a podcast because your friends laugh at everything you say. Read more books by ceo’s and mystical cognitive therapists. Visualize the opportunities. The last ten years don’t matter because all we have is the present and you can change right now.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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