As if the very nature of existence and the general melancholia of the past two weeks were not enough
I somehow screwed up my back this week.
Despite all efforts to drug the pain away, nothing has happened.
I should seek professional treatment, but that requires effort. I do not wish to put forth an effort.
So I shall dwell in dread melancholia.
It’s left me a lot of time to ask: now what?
When you think about it, there’s not really much point to anything, right?
I have published five stories and one cartoon in the past couple months. Including McSweeney’s, a huge win.
I’d still like to be in The New Yorker, an adolescent dream that has never wavered. But that doesn’t make me special. Throw a rock and you will hit a humorist with the same goal. Throw two and you’ll probably hit Jack Handey. But please don’t because that is no way to treat our national treasures.
Writing satire is wonderful, but what do I want from it? What is it doing for me? I’ve pondered this and came to: nothing. So now I decide the next move.
What’re ya gonna do? Do the same thing over and over again? That’s not fun.
Well, that was nice. Ever want to just whine, but not do so in a whole Twitter thread?
Welp, I have to crawl to work now.
Take it easy, pally.