The Essay That Can Go Fuck Itself

Sometimes the thing you don’t write tonight tells you more than the one you do

People keep asking about the sequel.

You know, the follow-up to that unemployment essay where I documented every soul-crushing day, like I was Anne Frank hiding from HR departments.

And then I say, but who’s counting? Good times. Great times.

"So what happened next?" they ask, with that eager look people get when they want the redemption arc, the inspirational pivot, the part where everything works out, and I learned valuable lessons about resilience or whatever.

Here's what happened next: I'm sitting here at 12:36 AM on a Thursday, staring at a blank document, and my brain is basically that scene from Alien where the thing bursts out of someone's chest, except instead of a xenomorph, it's just pure dread.

The truth is, opening that particular can of worms right now feels about as appealing as performing surgery on myself with a butter knife. The story isn't done. Hell, I'm not even sure if there is a story, or just a series of increasingly absurd plot twists that would make the writers of Lost tell me to tone it down.

But I made this stupid promise to publish every Thursday at 4 AM PST, because apparently I hate sleep and love arbitrary deadlines that nobody asked for. Haven't missed one yet. Won't start tonight, either, because breaking streaks is for quitters and people with healthy boundaries.

So instead, you get this: me, admitting that some essays need to stay in their cages a little longer. Not because I'm being precious about my art or anything, but because sometimes the most honest thing you can write is that you can't write the thing everyone wants you to write.

…

Keep the change, internet. Don’t worry, you’ll get something soon.