REASONS WHY MY LIFE SUCKS 1. I am an overweight twenty-four year old man with a Jew fro and a lying cheater girlfriend. 2. I am probably going to get fired today due to stress decreasing my performance at work, probably due to the fact that I have a lying cheating bitch girlfriend. 3. I am quite literally not living up to my full potential. For instance, I could probably get a new non-cheating, non-lying, and non-bitch girlfriend. 4. But I can’t get a new girlfriend because I am an overweight, soon to be unemployed, recently dumped, twenty-four year old man with a Jew fro.
So just to clarify, when I say I’m not living up to my full potential I’m not just saying that as if I’m some college kid trying to convince his parents to let him drop out halfway through his last semester at Harvard because he got a lead on a movie role from his third cousin’s friend who had a roommate who made it into Sundance one time three years ago. I mean I can literally do cool shit. Like Superman type cool shit, but I can’t do anything with that cool shit because that cool shit thing that I can do has made me extremely lazy. Like I just want to go take a nap after writing the words “cool” and “shit” that many times in one paragraph.
Fuck it, new paragraph. So this thing that I can do, I mean you probably can’t handle it so I shouldn’t even tell you. It’s the kind of thing that would make people think that I’m (a) A wizard or, (b) Jesus. It literally drove my mom insane. Well here it is, after all that buildup. Ok. I’m ready. Fuck. So… ever since I was a tiny little me (My name’s Mitch by the way, my life sucks. How’s yours?) I could look at a place and then two seconds later I’d be there. Like anywhere. I mean I can’t just look at a map and say, “Hey I want to go to Tahiti” and then end up in Tahiti. If I did that I’d just disappear for two seconds and then come back on my ass with my toes placed in the general region of wherever the word “Tahiti” is printed on the map.
So despite not being able to easily reach remote island destinations I am still essentially Jesus. Bow down peasants. The thing is that I don’t actually use my powers for good. I don’t use them for evil either but my lack of using them for good kind of strikes me as similar to that whole withholding the truth being just as bad as lying thing. I have emotional conflicts about my lack of Batman-ness. I mean he doesn’t even have super powers. What do I do about it though? Do I work as a firefighter teleporting orphans and coughing newborn kittens out of burning buildings? Fuck no, I could die doing that shit, and not just the fire. Secondhand smoke kills. So why don’t I work as a cop instead? Guaranteed I could catch a getaway driver faster than any squad car, but fuck that too because criminals have guns. I mean if “snitches get stitches” then cops almost definitely get pops, right? I’d rather die in a less painful way, like carbon monoxide poisoning. I hear it just feels like falling asleep but you need a garage for that. I don’t even have a car, why the fuck would I need one?
You probably have a few questions, like so what the hell do you do? And when the hell are we going to hear the story behind this shitty ex-girlfriend? Well (a) We are never ever talking about Jen, and (b) I am a “Creative Associate” at an advertising firm. Why does someone like me waste their talent at an advertising firm? Because it’s a straight commute from my apartment window to the skyscraper I work in. Admittedly landing is awkward. I have to shoot for about 20ft off the roof so I can get a good view of the alley before gravity turfs me. I think a homeless guy saw me in the air once but he probably already thought he was crazy. I guess I could kill myself that way, just port myself high up and let my body go kersplat, but that shit sounds painful, and potentially messy. Anyways, at work it’s my job to create memos, and by “create” I mean photocopying them on to photocopy paper and then stapling them to bulletin boards. Sometimes I print them on pink paper, sometimes blue. I like to support gender equality in the workplace however I can.
So you might be wondering, how does someone get fired for doing simple shit like that? Well I’m a “Creative Associate” working for a “Creative” advertising company where the culture is literally defined as “colorful and upbeat”. It’s on the plaque out front. Well after discovering that I had a lying cheating bitch girlfriend I wasn’t feeling so upbeat, so instead of pink or blue paper, or even green for Christ’s sake, I printed out the memos on white and beige paper. Weight and beige, the two colors that make up pre-made homes, and cardboard. The hues of conformity, the very shades of unrelenting normality, and I was the damned fool who stapled them all over the building.
Creative Advertising fell into ruin that day. Designers couldn’t draw, marketers couldn’t market, even the mail delivery guy lost that mail delivery guy type spring in his step. Non-smokers went on smoke breaks, and the clicking of home buttons being pressed in bathroom stalls resonated way beyond the necessary time requirements of a real bathroom visit. The office lost its buzz. The only sound was the occasional gurgle of the water cooler and the lonely ring of an unanswered telephone. An ominous whisper flowed through the cubicles. The boss wanted to see me first thing tomorrow.
Well today is tomorrow and I’m sitting here drinking a crappy beer on the crappy porch my apartment building advertised as a “charming veranda”, thinking about how dropping myself from the sky would be a messy way to kill myself, and staring at a list of all the reasons my life sucks. I should probably add “Unrealistic career goals”… done. I could probably also add “Lunatic Mother”, but that wouldn’t be nice. This list is for her anyways, to explain why I did it. I mean she’s crazy but you should at least write out a list of reasons before you kill yourself right? I took a sip of my golden piss beer, and looked up at the stars. When I was a kid I used to be able to make out all of the northern circumpolar constellations. That’s before I got so fat and lazy that my main exercise became porting from my bed, to my beer fridge, and then to my porch in under 16 seconds. I need a way out, I’ve needed one for a long time.
First it was moving away from my flat landed small town, then it was dropping out of school, and now it’s this. How do you do it though? I don’t want to have anybody clean up after me, besides my apartment of course. I definitely don’t want to decay indoors, and I definitely don’t want any excessive amount of pain or mental fortitude requirements. So what the fuck do you do? I guess I could borrow a car and find a garage to monoxide myself in, but then someone has to clean out my body and whoever lent me the car will think it’s haunted or some shit. Fuck I don’t even know how to drive, how the hell could I even get a car into a garage? What if it’s a manual? No, I need somewhere with no Oxygen where I can just fall asleep. Like the ocean… except drowning looks like it’s a lot of pressure. I need something quick, and preferably painless. I took another sip of beer and looked up at the stars again.
I figure that if you’re going to kill yourself, you might as well do it quickly. I chugged my beer and for the first time in my life crumpled it like a douchebag and littered it into the parking lot below, which was already infested with Ms. Shelley next door’s compost. You’d think that woman thought that this was the middle ages. I put one of the flower pots that came with the porch on top of my list. No time to put it on the counter like a normal suicidal maniac. Using probably the only courage I ever mustered in my entire existence I stared long and hard at the only big dipper ass constellation I could remember and I ported into the stars. Imagine my surprise when I woke up. I guess when they say “Shoot for the stars, you’ll land for the moon” what they actually mean is, “shoot for the stars, you’ll be the one guy out of ten thousand million who manages to land on the hull of a spaceship.”