Rain or Fucking Shine

I tried my best not to tell anyone I feel like dog shit today. I did, and do, but I tried to do the masculine thing and keep it internalized — at least until I could come home and cry on my website about it.

I failed immediately.

It happened when I went to get my Qdoba this morning. Getting my Qdoba has been a ritual of mine for going on ten years now. I even once worked at Qdoba fifteen years ago. My life and Qdoba are cosmically intertwined — and I hold gold status on their loyalty program.
(Qdoba, if you’re reading this — sponsorship?)

The server there is the same server who’s been there since it opened. She’s been serving me since I was a package delivery guy, back when I was a spry young man. Meanwhile, she has looked like she’s been in her late thirties for a decade, greeting me with that familiar raspy smoker’s laugh.

I don’t know why I’m drawn to the place — the queso? The bland-but-high-protein efficiency? Something deeper? I don’t know, and I don’t really care - if something is working, just enjoy it and try not to jinx it.

So she asked how I was doing and I tried to stop myself.

“MISERABLE” is what I wanted to say.
Instead: “Eh.”

“Eh” was enough to sour her on the interaction. She went cold. Usually she flirts with me a little — maybe unintentionally, maybe intentionally. Either way, she wasn’t impressed by my disposition.

I rallied with some jokes, and the sparkle came back to her eyes. I was forgiven.

I didn’t mention it for the rest of the day. I powered on like a good soldier and did what I had to do without complaint for the rest of the day.

Then I got home, flopped into bed, opened my laptop, and clicked “create a new post.”

I briefly considered writing something meaningful. Something that might earn me respect.

But the I remembered, no one is reading this anyways. And you don’t know who I am, and if I humiliate myself, you have no name or face to attach it to, so why shouldn’t I? It’s freedom. The freedom of being a nameless nobody!

So here’s the truth:
I feel like hot ass. And I will complain, at length. And you will read, or you will click away. You have options — you could always go spend time with your family, or improve yourself in some way, and instead you choose to sit and toil the hours away online. That is your prerogative. If I were getting paid, I might be inclined to serve you a tasty meal, but I’m not, so you’re getting gruel today.

I hate getting sick. Everyone around me has been coughing their lungs out for a month, and I thought I was superhuman. Then the old guy at the gym coughed directly into the air next to me and I immediately knew something bad was going to happen. Last time I got sick, it was a lady at the optometrist’s office, trapped in a tiny room, hacking without covering her mouth.

It’s always some asshole. The same people you hold the door for, who walk through without acknowledgment. The ones who bring crying babies to the movie theaters. The ones who piss on the toilet seats.

Sub-human scum not fit for polite society.

Look — I like to complain. People have called me the most “negative” person they’ve ever met. The most “critical.” I disagree. Complaining is an art form, even if you fail to see it.

I’m not curled up in a ball crying like a baby. I’m trying to be productive here, I’m riffing on a theme.

Art is subjective, and I believe a tantrum, if done with intentional shape and form can be beautiful.

Besides, I feel obligated to generate content — rain or shine.

Every time I share a post, I tell myself I’ll do another at minimum every other day. But I’m not actively working on my film right now. I have time. And when I have time, I have no excuse not to post daily.

So why this drive?

Let me be blunt:
I’m looking for an angle. I think in order to uncover that angle, I need to generate output.

I want to monetize whatever the hell this is. I don’t understand Substack yet. What is a Substack dedicated to someone who just types out their inner monologue? We all have inner monologues — why the hell would you pay for mine? I don’t get it, but there are a lot of them out there.

Maybe I’ll add t-shirts.
A podcast.
Short-form video content.
I’m the through-line in all of it. I’m not coaching or pitching a self help book or anything… I’m trying to sell me.

Maybe I should lean into the fact that apparently, in a room of people, I naturally end up at the center pulling planets into orbit. I’ve distracted entire classrooms before. I could easily distract people from scientific journals, too.

I don’t know my formula. I’ve never cultivated it.
What I need is a swarm — a school-type environment again with a herd of strangers — a crowd of hundreds or thousands to distract with my antics.

I genuinely have no expectations here — just wants.
I want someone to pay me for the energy I expend.

My real hopes lie with film, packaged art, things with value propositions I understand. I don’t understand why anyone would want to read any of this. I certainly wouldn’t. I browsed a few Substack pages as market research:

One guy pretends to be a doctor — smart angle — though it’s clearly ChatGPT.
Some people post chakra-mystic woo-woo.
Others post confessional identity essays.
And then there’s me.

Just a guy who eats Qdoba every day. Take it or leave it. The west is about to collapse anyways, and all of this vain, self-reflective art is gonna look real silly when future generations look at what we were doing right before it all went to shit.

They’re gonna go “Ah… yep. That makes sense. They had it comin. They thought they mattered.”

This isn’t my strongest work.
But it’s more coherent than half the trash I saw on Substack.
And that’ll do for now.

Good Evening.