Black Monday: A Story of My Life

Posted on July 25, 2017

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It comes as no surprise that today ended the way it did: with me fucking up. Although it’s more than likely just coincidence, somehow today’s date is almost like a Friday the 13th to me. You see, July 24th has a few significant meanings. First, and least importantly, it’s the day the registration for my soon-to-be car is due. Second, it’s an old friend’s birthday. Third, it’s the day that former friend and I last spoke a year ago. A little ironic, don’t you think? Especially since that conversation wasn’t the least bit negative. I wished her a happy birthday, we chatted; she told me she was going to get a new tattoo. And that was it. Never heard from her since. The last time I tried to contact her, I was shooed away by her lover.

So it goes.

Since then I’ve battled demons like Constantine. There was an internal peace that had been shattered by her cutting me off. Not to mention my confidence being damaged almost irreparably. Who doesn’t get slept with, ghosted, and not feel like there’s something wrong with them? Especially since the answers can only come from your own mind?

The new internal peace that I’ve established is both very different and very similar to the one before. Once again I’ve grown to mostly accept my loneliness, but not without a sometimes volatile hostility towards other people. I’ve found myself in more arguments with other people than ever before; and a constant feeling of being prepared to fight. It’s unlike me, but my temper seems to flare at the slightest grievance. I guess when even the ones closest to you are capable of wronging you, you give up on people.

So it goes.

As a part of accepting my loneliness, I’ve given up on love. When I was younger, I used to envision myself getting married, having children, a house; you know, white picket fence in suburbia bullshit. It seems that if you want to find a companion nowadays, you have to meet a certain criteria that you aren’t allowed to be informed of beforehand. And that’s putting it lightly. But basically, unless you’re some form of a narcissistic, disingenuous, raging asshole (male or female), you’re not relationship material. God forbid sensible people populate the earth. As such, I’ve taken up one of my coworker’s longtime traditions: going to Tijuana for beer, tacos, and whores.

After the first time we went, he told me, “You’ll never be sad about a girl again.” Even in my deeply intoxicated state, I wondered, Will I? Granted, the night before I had been feeling depressed about that girl I mentioned earlier, and felt a lot better. But deep down I knew: It was only temporary. In between going to TJ, my depression encroaches on me as it always does. Seeing beautiful women at work on a daily basis doesn’t help at all. Sometimes I try talking to them, but it never goes anywhere. It’s like I’m just trying to get a fix; to stop the loneliness in its tracks. But they’re always taken or not interested. Although once I did succeed in getting one to come over, it didn’t end well. She was weird, and gave me mixed signals. I ended up intentionally pushing her away, metaphorically speaking. I’ve never had any success since.

Outside of work I’ve gotten phone numbers from women in places and situations I wouldn’t have otherwise expected. But they all ended in the friend zone, of course; because women think being your friend makes up for that human (human, as in, pertaining to both male and female. Not just male, ladies) need for romantic companionship. It might be because I’m not narcissistic enough, because I know I’ve got raging asshole down pat (kidding). I’m a nice guy, and I guess that’s my downfall.

Anyway, that’s why I fuck whores now.

So it goes.

You might be wondering what this all has to do with Monday, and why it’s called Black Monday. Well, it’s what my coworker deems any Monday to be when something goes wrong. And unfortunately, it happens a lot on Mondays because we tend to be understaffed and simultaneously slammed with work (I work in an auto shop). Which leads me back to how this story started: my fuckup. I wrote up a work order for a battery installation, but left out one important detail: which battery was to be installed. The customer wanted our cheapest one, of course. But since I left out that little detail, my coworker installed our most expensive one. Why? Because that’s what 90% of our customers buy. Oops. So I got a talking to by a manager about how that customer was now getting 50% off their bill.

I didn’t really care about that aspect of it, but the whole situation dampened my mood regardless. And then of course, remembering that it’s that girl’s birthday, while knowing that I probably haven’t crossed her mind in a long, long time.

That made this Monday black enough for me.

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Posted in: Essays, Memoirs