Boy, the sky is grey.
The South is about to get pummeled by yet another extreme weather front, which will likely lead to millions of dollars of damage across small-town America and other places where taxes are considered state-sanctioned Satanism (no offense to Satanists, it’s merely part of the metaphor I’m going for here).
But that’s not what I’m really thinking about.
I’ve promised to make this blog about sports and politics, and it will be. But all of the writings I’ve submitted so far have to a large degree been personal diary entries about my life and current state of mind. I’m slightly devastated by my lack of a career, the lack of a love life, the shell of a social life, and the fact that I’m pushing 30 and still living at home. I’ve been assured by numerous people that millennials are all in the same boat, but it doesn’t make it any less depressing.
There are multiple women whom I’ve had (and in some cases still have) crushes on over the course of the year, one of which is seriously committed to her current relationship. But in all of the time that I have been single, and it’s been quite a long time now, only once have I ever been with someone where I was attracted to them as much as they were attracted to me. The rest have all been one-sided miss-fires and mostly fruitless pursuits.
Oh, for G-d’s sake, this fucking grey sky can seriously go fuck itself. It was grey all last week and after a couple of days of sunshine the sky decides, “Hey, pal, you’re getting too much hope again. Lemme take care of that…”
I may well just be writing to hear myself talk at this point. I mean, I’ve got two blog followers now! Y’all know who you are. So, I’m just a few persons away from my originally targeted audience of “three or four” dedicated readers.
Barstool, I’m coming for your candy ass.
In all seriousness, being a writer/broadcaster/journalist in your late 20s right now is hopeless. Any work you’d like to do pays less than nothing, and the jobs that do pay require that you eat shit for a decade before even being the runner-up for said paying job.
Couple all of this with my type 2 diabetes, constant fatigue from eating foods that exacerbate said fatigue, all while battling anxiety and depression, and it’s not a shocker why I’m in such a state of morose that I don’t wish to leave my bed.
I’ve concocted the perfect Misery Margarita of Ultimate Sadness. If I could bottle this, I wouldn’t because even my worst enemy wouldn’t deserve such a tortuous libation as this. Especially since that worst enemy is myself.
I wanna find my life, my love, my future, my calling, and my story.
But when the clouds are blocking out the sun, it’s impossible to peer through the night.
Here’s to praying for daybreak.
Diary of a Mad Millennial 