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.
422 Days
It has been 422 days since I last had a job, which means I've been unemployed for more than a year—longer than some people have had jobs.
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 o…
