Today I got the word on that Bowling Green job, the one I had real hopes for. Pulled back. Put on hold. Yeah, sure it is. That is the kind of sentence companies use when they want you to stop asking questions while they walk you out the side door like you never happened. If you want to prove it, do the simplest thing in the world. Ask for feedback. Ask what you could have done better. Then wait. You will hear nothing. Not a no. Not a maybe. Just that big quiet nothing that tells you exactly what you need to know. So yeah, today started as a bummer.
Then my son calls. He got hired. He has a real shot. A real start. The kind of news you hope for when you are a dad and you do not want your kid to have to learn everything the hard way like you did. I am proud of him. Like, proud proud. But here is the part nobody puts on a greeting card. It is hard to feel pure joy when you are sitting in your own pity party holding a paper plate of sadness. That is the irony. Same day. Same phone. Two completely different punches to the gut. And I hate admitting this, but it was tough to flip that switch. Still, I am a dad first. I have been a dad first since the day his little arse showed up and rearranged my life. So I did what dads do. I showed up. I celebrated him. I swallowed my own crap for a minute and did the job. Just saying, it is tough sometimes.
A few of you asked me questions after the last update. Bless your hearts for reading the drivel I send out. That alone deserves a drink. One question keeps popping up. How can I share this stuff so openly, so raw, with everybody watching? Fair question, especially since this email goes to family, old coworkers, mentors, and even people who used to work for me. That is a weird audience when you think about it. I sat with it, and I think it comes down to two things.
First, it is therapy. I do not care if one person reads it or a hundred people read it. I feel better once it is out of my head and on the page. This is me letting the pressure out so I do not explode in the middle of a random Tuesday. Some people have favorite foods. I have favorite words, and this is a way for me to use some of them. Petcock, Panties, and Dykes, all valid, non derogatory items that I assure you someone is giggling about now.
Second, I do it because I still think it helps. Maybe not everybody. Maybe not always. But somebody. Because the older I get, the more I see how hard we work to hide the ugly parts. We act like losing is something to be embarrassed about. We act like struggling is a character flaw. Meanwhile, every single one of us has people who would show up for us if they knew, people who would rush in like a fire department if they had any idea we were on the struggle bus. But pride gets in the way. We do this stupid thing where we protect our image and end up making our own lives harder than they have to be.
And the really twisted part is that the people who love you would feel good helping you. It is not a burden. It is a privilege. It is a way for them to show love. So why do we deny them that chance? Pride. Arrogance. Ignorance. Maybe fear. Pick one. They are all ugly. None of them belong on my favorite words list. But I do not have a prettier word that tells the truth.
Another question I got was whether I am using AI to write these. HELL FUCKING NO. I like writing. I like words. I like the way a sentence can hit you in the chest if you build it right. My best friend used to call me a wordsmith. I would not go that far, but I will admit I enjoy the craft of it. Now, yes, I run these through AI for grammar and punctuation, because I am not trying to look like I wrote it with a crayon while angry. But the voice is mine. The point is mine. The feelings are mine. What you are reading comes from my heart and goes out through my hands.
So here we go again. Back to square one. Back to my full time job being finding a full time job. Back to age discrimination that is supposed to be illegal, which is a cute idea, like a leash made out of spaghetti. Back to drug tests, background checks, credit pulls, and all the other little intrusions we have somehow accepted as normal. Back to businesses acting like an extra week of vacation is going to bankrupt the entire operation. Yes, I am still a white male. No, I am not a veteran. No, I am not Latino. Sorry, I am not disabled. Yeah, I still go by he or him. Maybe this time I look nationwide and let someone move me to the middle of a flyover state. The last time I tried that, they wanted Minnesota or Ohio. WTF, does anyone hire in a state without snow shovels?
If it was not for the 10 percent penalty, I would retire today and say deuces. Run off, start a strip club for geriatric little people with a strong Wizard of Oz vibe in the front and a cat cafe in the back, and let the world sort itself out. But apparently I am not allowed to do that yet. I am not old enough to have my own money because someone says so. Yeah, that pisses me off a little. What is a white, non veteran, straight, non handicapped man to do? Guess I have to get a job, but I would be lying if I did not admit to having 8/14/2032 written down as a reminder of the day it all becomes my choice again.
Wish me luck.
Q
Q is a meat Popsicle living in Nashville with hopes and dreams of running away to retire earlier than all his friends. Skilled in the witchcraft of not giving a damn about the Jones’ and filled with a did it or damn it mentality. His thoughts are his own, and he is no role model.
