Hangman’s Game

Nothing in the following will suggest anything other than the self-absorbed whine of a middle-class female who discovers that the world isn’t going to drop opportunities in her lap anymore.

So why pretend otherwise?

You wonder what it is that constitutes human endurance. How long exactly is your rope, and how far before you reach the end of it?

Could it be as simple as just one more rejection? Just one more fucking email of ‘thanks but no thanks’?

Why not?

I’ve never been anything special. The Curse of the High School Valedictorian, the Big Fish + Small Pond Syndrome, the maladaptive product of an overly supportive family. Never had to worry about positive reinforcement for this one. The fucking bitch got cheers for sneezing.

No wonder she hates the real world; nobody pretends anymore.

Nothing and nobody. Not worth a second thought, a first glance. A waste of time, space, and resources.

Fuck her.

Let someone else take a shot at life. Step aside, bitch, give up your place in line; you’re not getting in that club tonight (have you fucking seen what she’s wearing?) so why not let the real adults go on ahead and have fun?

I just wanted everything to stop.

I JUST WANT TO STOP.

Whine away, bitch.

Did you really think anyone was listening?

Ah, but isn’t that this fucking joke of it all – can’t tell anyone else, not really, ’cause she has to be bright and shiny and attractive for those employers still. Nobody likes a Mopey Myrtle. And if she does tell everyone just how fucking depressed and frustrated and goddamn alone she feels – instant Typhoid Mary, for sure. She’ll be radioactive on the job market, mental instability means NO JOB EVER, not even in retail.

And then she’ll really only have herself to blame. Couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut.

So she’ll take out a knife at night when she’s all alone (for real alone, not just the alone in her head) and the light is fading and even the construction workers are going home and she’ll dig in hard with the edge until she sees red.

Red for rage, red for dead.

But even those scars fade sometime. And we’re back to the beginning, another FRESH START, oh goody another interview call. Get out those pressed clothes and trousers, practice your smile and twirl for the committee (don’t forget to curtsy). Don’t think DON’T THINK about how this is your last chance, it has to be because you’re so tired you can’t do it anymore and if they say no – when they say no –

DON’T THINK.

Not till after, once it’s done. Then send out those thank-you cards and wait for the call.

Here it comes: Nail #43 in your career coffin, another heap of straw on that old camel, all those fun clichés. But really it feels different from that. Like a dull axe, biting into you, digging out a chunk at a time but never so sharp (never quite so mercifully quick) that you finally snap. Instead, you twist and groan and just get whittled away by degrees.

Don’t worry; if you can walk, you’re not dead. If you’re not dead, you can’t complain.

So SHUT UP OR FUCKING DIE.