The neighbor's dog woke up our Basenji, Bean, at 3:30am. I took her out, they're both back in bed, and I can't get back to sleep because my major depression is so bad I have chronic insomnia unless I've taken my sleep medication or I drink myself back to sleep. The 1.75 litre bottle of Bulleit next to me is keeping me company.

Well let's do the short version. The pandemic more or less ruined my life. My wife of now about almost 3 years, Sara, and my son did not get along in close-quarters. I eventually had to shuttle him to my mother-in-law's for a month or so at a time just to keep the peace. J caught wind of this because of court-mandated Zoom visitation and, out of the blue, filed a lawsuit.

This coming from the bitch who literally gave me 2 weeks notice that she was moving in with her boyfriend in Dubuque. And the years of hell being a single dad that followed.

Because G (my son) had been cooped up and doing home school for a year and a half, and because my wife loves and hates him simultaneously, and for him the feeling is probably mutual though siding toward hate because of her hours-long rants about him behavior to him, we decided to give up custody.

Me. With the fixation complex on being The Man in "The Road." Thinking I would never abandon my son after his mom did. But I did. Because he gets to have a normal live in Texas now. And I talk to him once or twice a week. And it's like masturbating to a dead salmon you're obligated to spunk on because it's in your life contract. I don't fucking know. I know he doesn't really care.

And intellectually I realize it's fucked. Because I raised him for several years on my own until Sara came into the picture. And seriously dated a Borderline (Siobhan, work colleague) and other chicks to try and find a mom figure for him. Only to realize that he just wanted his mom all along. He lives with her now and treats me as an afterthought, the 9-year old likely sociopathic video game addicted fuck, so cheers to my son.

I don't think anyone realizes how isolating living in isolation during the pandemic is. My wife has CVID. Basically, if she gets COVID, she dies. After a long hospital stay. I never realized while we were dating or beforehand, because she was a friend of my ex-wife for two decades, just how severe her immunodeficiency and thus health was in general. Boy do I now. I literally go out to piss and shit the dog. That is it.

We have groceries delivered. Alcohol--so much alcohol--delivered. There's a process for decontaminating it. Alcohol wipes. Or three days in the garage. Or in the back hallway.

I should also mention I hate my job. I've hated it for years--not that you could tell from how often I update this shit, but it's horrible. I retained a lawyer for an eventual lawsuit over the clusterfuck that's been my promotion and tenure case for my institution. I've been trying for a few years now to get out of here. Find some place else to be a professor. USC has been a solid prospect, or seemed like it, for several months. Got a job talk, a great informal chat with the search committee, collaborated with the search chair, and even got asked about spousal job accomodations back in late November.

Since then? Nothing. I've emailed Joe, the search chair, a few times asking about updates. Just nothing.

I keep trying. And trying. And trying.

I keep trying to work everyday as though my work output is going to be the same since having been in isolation as of March 10th, 2020.

Let's tick off some more boxes:

*I'm an alcoholic now. I drink at least two shots of bourbon, 3-4 beers, and the odd glass of wine every day. This is not to get drunk. I can't get drunk. I don't get drunk. This is to alleviate the constant feeling of inadequacy, shame, high anxiety, and just dealing with a shut-in life I never anticipated.

*I'm borderline fat again. I haven't been above 200 pounds in...fuck...my early 20's. We've eaten like shit until recently, but even then I'm guessing excess calories from drinking doesn't help.

*My major depressive disorder is in high gear. Sleeping soundly consists of a Clonazepam, a shot of whiskey, a Lunesta, and the piece of shit 20-something college student two doors down not letting their dog out to wake up my dog which leads to this now 2.5 hour wake-up bullshit and liberally drinking whiskey just to calm my brain down so I can go back to sleep.

I have no friends. They are all gone. I guess except Katherine, or K as I may have referred to her. The one with 3 kids and a husband who I'm still in love with. Recall, kind reader, that I'm polyamorous and being in love with multiple people ain't shit for me. Her children were/likely are a handful, but shit so is my son too. So.

As always lately, I wouldn't ever commit suicide because my wife needs the health insurance because she's on IVIG because she's immunodeficient. No one can afford the 30k/month price-tag for that shit except for insurance. My insurance. And so that's a deal-breaker for the whole offing oneself thing. But even past that, I'm not the type. Oh I can suffer long and hard. Anyone who has read this journal is real aware of that shit.

But.

I still will not, could not, would not do it. Do I wish I was dead?

Hell yes.

I am sick of this life. I am sick of the handful of fuckups I made that put me into this situation, stir-fryed with some Chinese asshole who fucked or ate or fuck-ate a pangolin in China to cause this pandemic. And the fact that my wife is hot as fuck, and who I've had two miscarriages with in trying to start a new family, but again has the immune system of a gimp bitch.

There. That's 4 shots of whiskey in under an hour. Barely anything. Maybe I should try going back to sleep.

What else pisses me off? Rachael. I thought you loved me. I thought you would be there for me when no one else would because that's what you said. I don't know if you're dead from having fucked too many truck-stop drivers, or whatever Canadian strange off in the goddamn wilderness you likely still are. You've been a comet for ye gods knows how many years now. But now you're gone apparently.

Gone like every fucking one else.

I remember when I had hope. And friends. And loved ones. And a life. And something other than an existence revolving around doing 5 hours of work in a 12-hour period of time, punctuated by taking out the dog to shit or piss, and hearing about the latest COVID-19 updates from Sara because that's literally her make-shift job.

5 shots of whiskey. Not a goddamn thing.

The pandemic has taught me one thing. I do not fear death anymore. I used to. Oh real bad I used to. But if it's reincarnation, going back up among the celestial host to sing songs in a multi-light year Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat thing, or oblivion.

I don't care. I long for death. I welcome it. I have been told by the Fates about when I die. And I'm at the half-way mark. And I have to wonder how much worse it's going to get.

All I can hope is Andrew won't spuge this site randomly at some point, or that I upgrade to gold, to download this now.......20-year old creation that's petered out over the last fuck all years.

Y'know I'll just be plain about it. God, Fates, I don't care what higher power. Either kill me or somehow actuate the change I keep trying to make in incremental ways via job applications or other means. All I wanted was a daughter with a hot bitch. But she's 42 and I'm 41 and she just has genital herpes outbreaks one on top of the other so that I haven't fucked my wife in at least 8 months.

I'm not a spiritual person. But I can entreat some motherfuckers to at least take pity on this borderline fat son of a bitch who used to have so much more than this. Anyone who has read any of this to any degree, from back then to now, can agree to that shit.

I live in hell.

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