I’m gearing up for another war with the post office. They’ve lost three pieces of mail this week, the most important of which is my discreet shipment of “Custom Medicine” from a dick pill company that I do business with (they sponsor my ironic(?)ly(?) racist podcast). The others are birthday presents from friends and family. And while I’m excited and loud about the dick pills, when I think about the gifts from friends and family, I feel embarrassed and thoroughly ashamed. The implication of sentimentality makes me uncomfortable in a way that a broken dick doesn’t, probably because my dick worked at some point. My heart, not really.
Today I am 30, which is old. I feel old and I look old and I’m old (don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not old). And now that I’m old, I don’t need or want parties or gifts, but I do need those dick pills, and I don’t know how to make this more clear to the United States Postal Service. They’re fucking me. Meanwhile, I can’t fuck anyone. I can’t even fuck myself.
But I don’t actually want any of my packages. Not the gifts nor the dick pills. I don’t want anything. I don’t want it to be my birthday and frankly I’m annoyed I’m not already dead. I don’t want to die, either, of course. I just want to live, in stasis, never progressing or regressing in any direction at all, indefinitely. Like a fungus.
Practically speaking, the nicest thing I could ask for is something or someone to act as a healthy receptive outlet for my generally impotent aggression. I hate being old and it makes me hate myself for allowing this to happen. Why didn’t I just stop a couple of years ago? I must have done something wrong. It’d be nice to sublimate those feelings; lay them on someone else, blame the world, etc. It would be nice to be vindictive, and I don’t have a child or coworkers, so, in a way, packages dropping off the USPS tracking tool into the unaccountable void of lost parcels is the perfect gift. I can sit here and refresh the page every day, see that there’s no updates, call in, talk to someone who hates me, someone who can barely hide it, and listen to the sweet sound of boilerplate condolences from a momentary enemy whose empathetic faculties have been completely rotted out by a life wasted in customer service. And I hate them too, and that’s a happy birthday.
Who remembers GameMasterAnthony?
Like most people, I mocked this man and then told myself I was doing it because I’m appreciative of his earnestness or naïveté or whatever. He’s simple and innocent and that’s something I don’t have or lost and I have to deal with the heavy burden of constantly considering myself and my position. So I look at GameMasterAnthony and I do the thing we do with every sweet-mannered online retard, like beebee or that chiclet-toothed Canadian guy that does weather reports. I say look at this adorable retard, ha-ha! Who I, of course, uh, care about, by the way. I can relate to this man, who is not me, through empathy. And maybe some people mean it when they say this. Maybe they really do, but I know I don’t, at least not in even remotely altruistic terms. I see this man and whatever normal human impulse drives people to bully is let out, just a little bit, and then put away, and its nature is rewritten as something different and kind. Like taking a pit-bull for a short walk and petting it and kissing it on it’s head and telling yourself it wasn’t bred to kill other dogs.
When really, I’m tethered to GamemasterAnthony by fear. It’s not empathy nor derision and it’s certainly not a healthy balance between the two. It’s a sense of there but for the grace of God, go I. He zips past my head like a hot bullet. I can feel him on the tips of my ears.
How close have you come to being an unfuckable loser, turning 33, alone, posting about a fictional birthday party with your only friends, Mickey Mouse and Sailor Moon? How often do you look up from your own life, thinking about how just-ok it’s going, and have the same feeling you get when you realize you almost stepped off the curb in front of a bus? What happened? Could that have been you? Is that you? Did I die and this is the afterlife? Am I GameMasterAnthony, sitting here, eyes closed, turning 33, imagining friendships and contentment built on terms other than my own? He’s terrifying; a near death experience, oblivious to himself. I hate him, I want him to go away. I hate myself.
Oddly enough what always struck me more harrowing than GameMasterAnthony’s solitude and infantile delusion was his age itself. Thirty three! God, fuck, what an awful age. Too old to die young and too young to die wise, and probably the age more apparent than any that if you were going to do something and haven’t yet, you never will. Even the secular narcissist will see Jesus as a benchmark, and he was wrapped up by 33. Thirty three you might as well kill yourself, but then again, if you were gonna, you would have by now. At least feel it. Don’t have a fake birthday party for yourself, and certainly don’t use so many exclamation points. You should know better, by 33, than to be happy.
And I’m sure I am someone else’s GameMasterAnthony. All this exposition is too dumb, too sincere, too embarrassing, too self-serving and navel-gazing and myopic and whatever else you want to throw at it. Infantile and delusional in its own right. But how close were you to being this miserable? Are you afraid that you’ll end up like this, or that you already are? Are you me? A quite-literally-custom-medically unfuckable loser, alone, turning 30, incapable of even imagining fictional friendships with cartoons for babies?
Uh oh, it’s my birthday and I’m thirty so you know what that means! Bring it in, guys! Everyone I’ve ever feared comes in for a HUGE party! Every girlfriend, relative, colleague, idol, authority figure, naive victim of my cruelty, you; we all sit down and lose our patience while navigating the USPS customer service automated help system.
I’m going to the batting cages today. There’s hip Brooklyn fathers there, with their hip Brooklyn sons, and they don’t seem to be much happier.