So sick of it all

I am a 34 year old loser. There, I admited it. I am a loser. Admiting it isn’t freeing, it isn’t liberating; it is simply reciting a fact. I have never been successful at anything I’ve done in my life, never accomplished anything worthy of note, I just take up space. My career in the military was a bust, my dreams of getting an advanced degree have washed ashore on the banks of my crappiness more than once, and with three different majors to boot, my marriage would have ended in divorce had my wife not killed herself upon the announcment of my desire to seek a divorce. I mean, I get it life, I do. Fuck me because I can do no right. Fuck just cut me a break for once okay? No? Well fuck you and fuck me too.

I sit at home more often than not because I have no money to go anywhere and do anything, but hey, even if I did, where would I go and what would I do? Hang out with my friends? No, they can barely stand the sight of me, and hey, who can blame them when every time they see me it’s one sob story after another? I cannot stand the sight of myself either, so at least we have that in common. Besides, when I DO go to my friends’ house, I never bring anything with me, just… mooch. I am sick and tired of being the guy that people have to feel sorry for because of a, b, or c, and instead want to be the guy that people actually enjoy being around. So other than being around my friends, what else do I enjoy doing? Biking, and believe me I would be out there every day on my bike had I not pawned the goddamn thing.

And here we go, part fifty billion and one of the loser(ness) of me. I pawned everything that I could make a buck off of. Was it to support a drug habit, buy something expensive and useless? Nope, it was to help pay the bills, and guess what? I’m still just as fucking broke, with my shit in pawn constantly on the verge of being lost to the masses. So again, fuck you life, and fuck you Raymond, you fucking loser.

And for the record, none of this note is a poor pity me boo fucking hoo letter, this is just me being sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I spoke of suicide earlier, remember? Yeah, well, I had to find my wife. Dead of a prescription drug overdose because of me. Because. Of. Me. Fuck you people who tell me that this isn’t my fault, fuck you people who say that it’s conceited to think that I am important enough to die for. Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you too. I’m not worthy of shit and I know it, but it didn’t stop my wife from calling me that night, crying, begging to come to my job and work this shit out, nope, I just said no, and let her hang up on me. Yeah, fucking smooth move asshole. Guess what I had to find that next morning? If you guessed my wife, lying on the bedroom floor, blue in the face, pained expression on her cold and lifeless face, you win the crock pot, and a lifetime of horrible memories of what a shitty person you are. I get to go through the rest of my life with this monkey on my back of what a shitty thing I did, and what an even shittier thing SHE did. It’s like schizophrenia without the joy of medication. I get to remember every day, for the rest of my life what she did, and the noose she hung around my neck.

But see, that’s only the end of the end. While she gets the joy of nothingness, I get the joy of living on, and wishing I had the stones to do it too. Believe me, I get closer and closer to being able to pull that proverbial trigger every day. Is it because of the people I would leave behind? Hardly, though it would suck for them for a time. Is it because I secretly harbor a love for life? HA! Nope, here’s the beautiful thing: I am too fucking chickenshit to do it. I don’t have the balls to end it all, though it’s what I want more than anything. I just want to die.

But Raymond, one might argue, people DO care about you and DO care about your well being. My response? So fucking what. Buy a cat, tend a garden, paint something. Believe me anything is better than caring for me. I am nothing, I come from nothing, knew love for a time, fucked it off, but I am nothing.I seriously do not understand why people care for me. What do I do for them? Make them glad not to be me? Cool, at least I can serve as a life lesson. Loserus Fuckeyouerus under glass… Or, maybe more aptly, under pressure. Whatever.

Aaaaand here we go: The final nail in the fuck you in the ass, die of a horrible disease called life: My living situation. This shit just keeps getting better and better. Oh, I have a place to stay for a time. But for how long? Who knows? See, my apartment complex is typical corporation. Gimme your money, fuck you, you are nothing but a number on a accounting sheet. Guess what? I CANNOT AFFORD THE GODDAMN APARTMENT! FUCK YOU ASSHOLES FOR FUCKING ME IN THE ASS!