Hang Yourself in the Woods

Google tells me that the site is getting tons of hits from the search term “hang yourself in the woods.” It’s probably because of this article from 2008, but I think it’s awesome that at least 15 people have searched for that term in the last 14 days. Is there some kind of suicide cult out there that, now, is being informed and inspired by ancient articles on Greatsociety? I can only dream…

I no longer plan to hang myself in the woods. My fear of lyme disease now outweighs any masterplan to hike through the undergrowth of Rock Creek Park to find childhood haunts. Which is my way of seguing into the discussing the weird fact that, generally speaking, the older I get, the more fearful I’ve become. I never used to care what would happen and hurled myself into danger. My reward is that I’m limping and creeping and massaging sore bones from long ago injuries — a broken wrist, a shattered elbow, a shattered knee, a ruptured then atrophied leg muscle, a plate in my skull. Where once I thought myself immortal, even in the face of those injuries, I’ve since become a pathetic flincher. It sickens me, actually. I need to embrace my immortality… Or so I tell myself as I lay on a heating pad on the couch and watch reruns of Doctor Who.

Much of this has crept up on me in just the last few years. Where in 2008 I entertained romantic notions of hanging myself in a woodland childhood haunt, now the thought is exhausting and, even if I were in the grips of the most dire depression, I’d take one look at the twisting brambles covering that childhood path and see nothing but spiders, ticks, snakes, rabid squirrels, and piles of AIDS-infested hobo poo.

Speaking of which, am I the only one who wonders if gay people have ass problems? After riding the train, if you will, doesn’t the shit just leak out? And where’s all the cum go? Because Father Keveney told me that when you cum in a girl, the vagina is specially made to eat the cum with little crunching jaws that make a sound like ‘scrench screeeeench.’. Surely the same mechanism isn’t in place in the ass? I don’t know, Father Keveney had to go to a special resort for priests before he told me about that.

Ha, ha. But, seriously…?

I think I’ve been in the grips of a minor midlife crisis that quietly snuck up on me in my 40th year. 2014 and the first half of 2015 were actually very rough. The grandfather dropped, I had a brief bout of financial issues due to a tax snafu from 2007, I switched jobs from a job I fucking hated to a job that fucking bored me to tears, I lost a few friends because they were fucking cunts and had it coming anyway, a few other friends experienced some minor health issues, I had a couple of mysterious ailments that made doctors shrug and smile sheepishly, everyone around me was also turning 40…or 80…and similarly blah about it. Nothing truly serious, just all the shit that makes you want to hang yourself in the woods because you know you’re at the point where the tune won’t ever change. This is just the beginning — people are going to start dying, you’re going to get sick more often, and the IRS is paying closer attention to you so you should probably stop writing off the cash you’re paying your drug dealer.

A friend finally told me that I’ve been “doomy” for the last few months. That’s actually all I needed to snap out of my brief mid-life depression because doomy people are assholes and they should be kicked really hard in the face. Certainly, I’ve ignored all the amazingly awesome shit that’s happened to me. I complain about a tax snafu from almost a decade ago and ignore that my company is also in its first year of not only paying for itself but also turning a profit. Why, just yesterday, I bought a Slim Jim using company profits, and I have 15 cents left over. So awesome.

I’m happy in love and in life. I’m proud of my accomplishments. I still have access to the email folders from my old job so I can fuck with them every single day. All those cunt ex-friends who are out of the picture are truly out of the picture and I can still spy on them via Facebook and giggle every time they meet disaster or become uglier. Life is grand. Plus I’m going to get to see the 50th anniversary of all of my favorite sci-fi shows, so I’m way ahead.

I just need to get rid of my boring day job. Of course, all I do at my boring day job is write shitty sci-fi novels and watch long Youtube videos of narrowboaters exploring the waterways of England at 2mph. I should probably just relax because a normal, non-boring job would really get in the way of that stuff…and I’m not sure I’d be happy with that scenario. In fact, I’ve realized that life is all about writing bad sci-fi and watching narrowboat videos and stalking people on Facebook. That’s what we should all be doing. Amen.