February 7th, 2022 - Once Removed
Dear TNY,
What the fuck am I supposed to do with “Once Removed”?
This story is way too fucking long. It’s almost 8k words about a bunch of…what? The whole story was summarized by the aunt a few paragraphs from the end. And in those hundred or so words, her summarized story generated some level of minor interest in me. So why keep all the other bullshit?
I just…I just don’t have the fucking patience for this shit anymore. Or energy. I skimmed most of this story. Especially the start. All these fucking characters and family and blah blah fucking blah. Is this what represents your readership? Is this is the state of drama in people’s fucking lives these days? What a fucking jag I could go on about the state of living of your upper-middle class, sheltered readers (and did go on, but deleted it because I was sounding pretty goddamn preachy up here knowing that later in this letter I’m going to rage-cry about my own problems, which are completely solvable, my own fault, and can be summarized thusly: I have enough money to buy my freedom back and am mad that people have fucking jobs and kids and lives and hobbies and friends and can’t hang out with me all the time; I’m mad because I’m pathetic and don’t want to be alone and I refuse to give up on this fucking window of freedom I have worked for because I’m sure I’m right, even though I seem to be the only one that’s miserable).
I don’t even know what else to say. You know? This story wasn’t even interesting enough for me to sharpshoot the chandelier work (which, okay, a little sharp shooting: As I have swapped chandeliers in the past, I don’t think a fucking drill was ever used or necessary or would fit. It’s very likely that if a power tool was used, it wouldn’t be a drill, per se, but a screwgun or a cordless impact. But whatever, I don’t actually care enough to care).
I’m just jaded. And fucking tired. And your stories don’t even really piss me off anymore. They are just beige frosting on a shitty-ass life I have made for myself and I’m mad about that today.
Yesterday I left again. I left a place where people wanted me to stay. And now I’m in a place where people want me to be. And there are other places and other people, too. And before this place or that place, I was in a place and another place before that and another fucking place before that one and more people and more people before that. It’s always, “come here or come here or come here or fucking come here.” You know what I realized when I drove away yesterday? I heard all the voices in unison saying, “You always say you don’t want to be alone, but you’re leaving again. You’re doing this to yourself.” And I thought to myself: Right now, alone, miles accumulating behind me (with soon to be van troubles on the way after spending $5000 in repairs less than a month ago), this is the definition of the alone I’m tired of being.
See, the space between all the places and all the people, that’s what I want filled up. Because that’s my life. It’s a part almost no one has touched. I don’t want to be told how I need to change my life to remove it, that I need to do this or need to do that. All those fucking voices out there saying shit from my phone or in real life about how it’s me and my life that’s the problem. I need to compromise. I need to give up. I need to let things happen, let people be nice to me, let myself be loved, let myself fucking whatever. All that shit, those voices, coming from somewhere else that’s not my life, treating my shit like it’s some kind of fucking experiment gone wrong that needs to relocate to someone else’s life to be given CPR, oh and when you get here can you fix my things (I don’t mind fixing the things, I like it actually; but as I sit here in a bad mood with a busted van, I’m reminded of how often that floats in reverse (read: rarely (I am grateful when it does happen, thank you thank you)).
BREAK BREAK BREAK RIGHT THE FUCK NOW SOMEONE ON MY PHONE IS TELLING ME I NEED TO WRAP THIS LETTER UP SO I CAN GET LUNCH BECAUSE THAT’S IMPORTANT BUT THIS LETTER IS NOT BREAK BREAK BREAK
Like, I don’t know how to get this shit across anymore. Fuck, I likely don’t need to get it across. No one ever really hears anyone, they say. We’re all alone. Everyone just hoping to go home with a little bit of grace.
Yet, here I am. Saying: I exist. I exist in this shitty restaurant. I exist with my van’s rad cap in my pocket, the mechanic not calling back so I’ll do this shit myself. Again. I exist every fucking time I drive back to Colorado when I go to see my kids. I exist in front of my ex’s house, my kids choosing to live there, in front of a TV screen, instead of living an adventure. I exist when they tell me they don’t want me to live there, either, like I don’t actually exist at all. I exist in that van, 12 hours a day, hoping to not wake up the next morning. And I exist when I leave Colorado too, wishing even more for death because I have no life of my own to go to and no one exists in that liminal space with me and I am frustrated with going to anyone else’s life. I exist no matter how much it hurts that I’m not in your life, especially because I hurt too and am in a life that no one can, truly, be a part of because of my current freedom, making my life seem really, really fucking irrelevant for all the effort I’ve put into it. I exist here in my own life, even if it looks to you like I don’t want to be living it, and it sucks living it most of the time these days, but I exist here hoping that my life, even if you think it should change, is just as important as anyone else’s.
Fuck, I’m just mad. And sad. And I don’t want to be telling this shit to a fucking FTNY letter or my phone, but I have to because everyone else has a life and they are off doing what they want to (or have to) and the only way I’d get to say this shit the way I want, in person, face to face, is to drop what I’m doing and go do their life which just creates more of the same problem I have now (and no, I definitely don’t want you to drop your shit and come to my life, wherever that may be, I just want you to understand me because that’s step number one, not knee-jerk reacting, instead fully ingesting and understanding why I’m fucking tried of doing anyone else’s fucking life). So, yeah, I’m tired of doing my life alone and tired of hearing how solvable that is by just letting myself be open to care or a partnership or family or moving closer or fucking whatever…because it all seems (to me) to include the requirement to drop what I’m doing and go do someone else’s life (and it may sound like I’m not doing anything, that there is nothing to drop, but ahem, I’M DOING MY FUCKING LIFE WHICH MUST, BY LOGIC, HAVE EQUAL VALUE AS ANYONE ELSE’S). So when does my fucking life get done? When does my fucking life matter? Because I’m sitting here crying and saying it should, goddamn it. I don’t want to be a utility anymore. Some kind of magic totem. A shiny coin. A story you tell to people after I’m gone.
I’m a needy, selfish, ugly human like the rest of you. And I want to matter too. I want to matter in my own space. I want to matter in my own life. Not just yours.
No matter how painful or shitty or lame or pointless or wasteful or difficult or impossible my life may look to you, it’s my fucking life. I just want to matter outside how I port into your existence. Matter enough that you port into mine, whomever the fuck you are, family, friend, lover, or otherwise. Matter enough that you port into the unported places.
But, whatever. I’m being an asshole. I’ll simmer down. This is just the alone coming out. A flare-up. It’s not pointed at any one person. Just a festering boil leaking out. The accumulation of years and years and so many miles moving my body around to accommodate others. I suppose I’m just a big monster of resentment rearing its ugly fucking head, roaring to roar. Knowing that others have come to me. Knowing even more have offered to come to me. Knowing that I am not always alone. Knowing that I am filled with gratitude for others’ time. Knowing that it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. And for knowing all this and doing it anyway, I’m sorry.
And on that note, I accept some of the blame for this. Because a million years ago I made a bunch of choices that led to me being alone. I didn’t even know that’s what I was wagering, either. And now here we are, with enough time and money on my hands that I’m conducting an experiment of what alone really is (for me). Staring into the this screen or my phone, knowing that this digital world is where I spend most of my time with “connection”, which is NOT real (the real life shit is, though, and is astonishingly valuable to me), but satisfies my desperation in a superficial manner that is fleeting, punishing, and emotionally damaging (likely for all parties). Fine. Fucking fine.
What the fuck am I even on about? I don’t know. The story has too many characters. Needs compressing. Badly. The tension around the light fixture and the baby getting tied to a chair and crying and puking and the shitty aunt and the heat, it all kind of fizzles out instead of being crisp like something Carver would do. Yeah. Yeah, this is a Carver story in disguise. And it’s about 75% too long. Like my rant about my life and being alone. Yeah, like my life in general. Too fucking long, bruh. Someone should come see me out. I’ve certainly outstayed my welcome here.
Fuck it. What a fucking waste of a human.
Peace.
Nick
