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Lived Through This
The Art of Losing Everything
It would be easy to feel sorry for myself, but I choose compassion instead
A year ago, in many respects, I was functioning like a thirtysomething gay professional man should. Decent writing job, decent sex, saving money, paying rent, paying bills, enjoying a view of the Pacific Ocean from my place, paying respects to my body by working out constantly so as to continue having more decent sex, paying off my still-gargantuan grad-school loans, eating all organic, eating plenty of fiber to keep my butthole clean, driving an eco-friendly car, and repeat.
Then I was let go from my job, and I ended up burning through all my savings and unemployment money, and then my credit cards thereafter. I couldn’t keep up with everything. No more cage-free eggs, just shit eggs from the 99 Cents store. The descent was slow and steady though, a snail sliding down a spoon to a pan full of hot butter.
It’s been a hilarious holy cannoli of crusty disappointments injected with a custard of none other than mysteriously sweet what-the-fuck-ed-ness.
It was a sobering, humiliating, ball-boiling moment one evening when I finally came to terms with…
