Climbing Back Up
It has been five years since I had been forced out of my comfort zone straight to the real world with a roundhouse kick to the face. So far, I had been a target of bullies and thugs, scrambled by security personnel, passed around by callboys, bitchslapped by prostitutes, screwed over by jewelers, tricked by clients, mentally raped by employers, tormented by professors, beat up by gangsters, kicked around by sparring partners, taunted by rich kids, doubted by numerous girls, betrayed by family and friends, and almost killed by criminals. These are the experiences of a kid who didn’t even know how to commute at his first day of college.
Now, I have been following a difficult disciplinary regimen to calm my temper and block out distractions. It had been going well so far due to my renewed commitment to my martial arts training and my ongoing struggles with writing. I am a 22-year-old kid who is stupid enough to pursue something in which basics have been taught to most people since kindergarten. An additional factor that goes against me is the fact that it has nothing to do with my college major.
From ages 16 to 20, I did not know what the fuck I was supposed to do with life. I had already decided that I didn’t want to fix computers for a living because I fucking hate the people who ask for my services. If it’s an irrepairable problem, the fuckers would blame it on me for not fixing it. If I do fix it, I would not be compensated adequately. Also, while I’m fixing it, they’ll constantly moan and bitch about me not doing it right and the amount of time it takes me to resolve the problem. From that point on, I realized the reason behind this country’s failure to ascend from failure. They bitch too much.
So I have chosen writing, which guarantees me a life of estrangement from my family and financial insecurity for many years to come. Some people would say that they have friends who have pursued writing careers that had been successful so far, but of course, they only see the face value of it all. I know my own situation, and I say that it sucks. Not only do I have my mother breathing on my neck, but I have constant struggles with my own skills. I need to improve further, but I’m not getting it fast enough. Just like an artist, a writer has his own problems with himself.
This may not be the end for me, but it sure merits a big middle finger towards the heavens. I have changed religions and dropped F-bombs all over the place before I actually got to focus on what must be done. I am paying for the foolishness of my youth as we speak, and I’m really suffering.
I’ll come out of this rut, but not without taking a few heads with me. I’m not going to be kind anymore about this. If I encounter an obstacle, then there shall be no mercy. I am now angrier than I have ever been in my life, and the only thing that can calm me down now is if I actually get the fuck out of this hole that I dug myself in.
I’ll have to climb back up, step after excruciating step.
