Are You Happy Now
From Savage Spear of the Unicorn
“Joe” writes:
Hi Delicious Tacos,
I read your post.
Has your life improved?
Yesterday at work I was reading emails on my phone and I started seeing a fish shaped spot crawling with patterns. Over several minutes it turned into a giant amoeba filled with psychedelic flashing triangles and fractals. Made me blind. I’d been reading an email from a friend. He said he’ll kill himself in Cambodia. I offered to buy him a plane ticket back. The hooker he lent his house to didn’t pay rent. A different girl stole his truck and his shotgun. Took them to Orange Country where she drove into a ditch and was arrested. She has a two year old son. A fictional character who is not me had recently fucked her raw from behind and she couldn’t get wet until she stopped five minutes in to smoke heroin out of a big blown glass pipe. The fictional character missed that smell. The fictional character couldn’t bring himself to cum in her. She’d been crying about the son, who was with his religious grandmother some place like Yucaipa. She’d take hours to get ready before she’d let you at her. Bad skin. Gingerly applying foundation. Point being I should avoid looking at my phone.
Today I wasted, looking at Twitter and Sopranos clips. The day was already fucked. At 5:10 AM the neighbors dropped something. I snapped awake. Now with the light, can’t get back to sleep. I’d been getting sick. Your immune system gets compromised which makes you sick which makes you agitated which makes you not sleep which makes your immune system compromised. Their new second baby will get older and louder and they’ll have six more kids who’ll turn into Finnish strong man competitors within two weeks of birth.
Now I’m sick and retarded. I looked at opthalmic migraines on WebMD. Was assured they’re harmless. But key parts of your brain just scrambling under stress: not good.
I snap awake. And that fucking mockingbird, which I came to terms with writing a story about. This year he did get a mate. Built a nest outside my kitchen. Good for him, I thought. Story resolved. This motherfucker has now re-emerged to sing mockingbird songs in June. After mating season. With a wife and child. Outside my window, 4AM.
Which brings me to your question. This bird is my totem. Whatever changes in life, he’s driven by the same instincts. Life has improved tremendously. I make good money. Travel the world. Tonight I’ll suck the snatch and titties of a beautiful young poet. She applies lavender. Being near my lavender plant now gives me an erection. Before that I’ll make a roast. Open a window because she’s vegan. I bought a month’s worth of HBO from Amazon Prime. Unbeknownst to me at time of purchase, Blade Runner 2049 is included. Can you believe it. Two hours, forty-three minutes of quality filmmaking.
All the bad things in that post came true. I did get doxed. The girl did leave me. The rent I complained about got raised 33% more. The neighbors had more, louder kids. No girlfriend, I’m sure I have cancer, brain damage etc.
But I don’t give a shit about any of these things. I don’t want kids anymore. I don’t want a girlfriend. My genes are defective. My mother’s father tried to kill his kids by hanging. This is in me. I can feel it. She tells stories about his drinking. They horrify her but I relate to every aspect. It’s me.
Thinking you must be happy will kill you. I’m miserable and it’s great. Stopped getting pissed about it. Fucking Anthony Bourdain, every middle aged woman’s “attainable” celebrity crush, just offed himself. Circumstances change nothing. You are who you are.
You have X, Y and Z, why aren’t you happy. You’re tall you’re white you get pussy. Why aren’t you happy. Why don’t you try Wim Hof breathing, kratom, glycine, church, getting rich via cryptocurrencies– because everyone is selling you horseshit. If any of this shit worked it’d be illegal.
My thermostat is off at a molecular level. It does not matter what happens. The good news is I wrote this a week ago. Now editing it, I can’t relate. I saw two hawks this morning. Two! I feel fine.
But for the purpose of this post let’s pretend I don’t. What can you do to help, you ask. I genuinely appreciate your reaching out. But the only answer I can think of is: die. Get reborn as a woman. Wait eighteen years. Send me another email. This time saying “Fuck Me.” You can ask if I’m OK but you’ll already know.