Well, here I am again. It is the very fucking bottom of the bottom. I keep trying to be positive, keep trying to keep it together, God I try so hard. And every once in a while I just have to give up because I am tired.
I am stuck here in Columbus Ohio, and it is now an economic catastrophe all over the country, so chances are I’ll be here for another soul-crushing 12 years. I have always hated this city, and yet here I am. I’m going to have to sign my divorce papers because the man I married has his head firmly ensconced in his own ass. Of course, he’s always gotten what he wanted, from birth until now, so why should this instance be any different. Why shouldn’t I just walk to the strip mall in Ohio, by myself, and fucking cry my eyes out in front of some notary at a bank I can’t even get a checking account in because my life is a fucking mess. And why shouldn’t the love of my life be living in the greatest city on earth, successful and dating some fucking chippy who works at one of the trendiest museums in Brooklyn? And why shouldn’t this have happened because I chose to take the higher road and not abandon my kid? Why the fuck not. Tell you what, I’ll just stay in Columbus, Ohio and rot away for another 12 years until I’m the fucking cat lady.
My new job is also interesting. My boss spends their day throwing verbal razor-studded anvils at everyone, and we’re all supposed to eagerly catch those in beds of downy feathers. For five days a week. Then I come home and do the mom thing, and try to have some sort of social life but it’s not really there. Just a bunch of fucking quasi-strangers who probably think I’m fucking nuts, who bore the living shit out of me and spend their time talking about how much they like Tarantino and Ben fucking Folds.
I would work at the nature preserve, but they’re not exactly hiring, and aside from that, there’s no one there to marry and it’s out in B.F.E. I wrote Wendell Berry a long, long letter, by hand, and it took me weeks to write it. This man, who is my favorite writer, and who has an entire essay devoted specifically to how he’ll never use a computer, sent me back a computer-generated form letter, with a space left for his signature which he did not sign. So that’s that. Certainly no Woody Guthrie pilgrimage.
This is it. This is my life. I am never getting out of Columbus, the love of my life is gone, and nobody gives a shit. Join the fucking 9-5 club and eat shit. Be happy I have a job. The end. I am fucking bored to death, all I ever fucking do is try to make something out of this pile of shit in front of me, and it never gets me anywhere. What is the fucking point.
