Jumped
2026-08-31
You know that rhetorical question parents like to use? The one about the friend jumping off the bridge, right?
I'm the friend who jumped.
It's a lot better to be good than smart. I think of that Elizabeth Holmes situation, or the Martin Shkreli deal, and how it's real easy to shoot yourself in the nose when you forget the smell of your own bullshit. That's something I have to constantly be aware of for myself; man, I love a good hustle. But I worry about my own propensity for fucking other people over and how easy it can feel sometimes—how making the harder decision to leave it be can occasionally be mistaken in my mind as a missed opportunity. We're all pretty burned out from the self-indulgence narratives; that whole idea of "you are deserving of so much more" is a fragrant little poison. I wish I didn't feel so sorry for myself sometimes, but in those small moments of clarity when I realize just how lucky I've been, it's at least a small breath of fresh air to just write it down—for the record, or otherwise. Still, it's a tough thing, distinguishing between the food that fills my belly and the other stuff that fills my soul.
Eucharistic theology aside, a less abstract way to think about it is in relationships. It's a small rule of mine not to discuss the affairs of others here, particularly when it doesn't relate to me or I don't have nice or funny things to say about them. In part, that's because I don't want the smoke, but it's also a sort of self-respect—remembering that if my prose is ugly, that makes me ugly. Even then, the fruits of the Spirit show themselves most handsomely in good company; they make themselves even more audacious in bad company, too. I try to refrain from patting myself on the back when I show patience and remember to give the real credit where it's due. Don't bless me man, seriously. There's no need for it, because I thank so much more than just a simple show of divine intervention. I try to thank the horror too, even when it claws my eyes out while I'm asleep at night. There's no need to be so afraid of those pernicious little suckers. Get behind Me, so He said.
Today feels like one of those days where the multiversal kaleidoscope is showing itself to me again; there's too much shit for me to do, or at least could be doing, yet I find myself in paralysis from staring at all the pretty colors. One path I considered was trying to be some public school teacher, but one look at this website would make the entire HR department explode, I fear. Oh man, the parents' reactions—a horror I don't think I could properly face. Delete all this work in the name of professional amends? No thanks. Look me up on LinkedIn, by the way. It's a funny laugh, and I have no idea what email that account is under and I don't care about deleting it. I dunno, one of y'all report it or something. I remember all those times I shot myself in the foot so I could keep those bridges burnt to a crisp. Back when I dropped out of college the first time, I didn't even bother filling out the stupid paperwork—just stopped going and took the kill shot to the GPA. Twelve credits at a zero point zero; fuck a transcript. It's not like a degree changes my employability anyway—not like I can take a shot at those positions anyway with how far I've put my image down the toilet.
There's that inverted pride again—oh, so woeful being an outsider, boohoo. How grossly arrogant that is, isn't it? I've got too much ass, but not enough smarts to slice from that pie. No, it's okay. The older I get, the more I really feel like Uncle Jesse from Full House. Though I can't think of a much better position for myself, funny enough. I mean, if the choice is between Martin Shkreli and Uncle Jesse, the latter sounds fine. Ideally, a Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski would be better, but I don't think any literary agents are going to put me on any time soon—not like I'd have anything to give them, anyway.
I've been telling myself to make a damn zine already, but I just—uh, not right now. Maybe soon.
Support my work with Liberapay
Bitcoin address: bc1qtgqvj6qjxnaxkns20x5rcwnxvv3jqzhduvvxfc