My Semi-Fictional Life #62 (A Letter to Myself)

Hello, peeps. Today’s post is personal and will likely be long and unbearably boring. It’ll probably be riddled with errors, too, as I’m writing it at 12:30 at night after waking up from what was suppose to be a nap I took at 7pm. That’s happening more and more these days, but I’ll get to that in the post. If you’re interested in the man behind the blog/fiction, hang around. If not, click away. No hard feelings. There will be nothing witty or entertaining about this post. Now, I would like to speak to future E. Thanks.

Hey, you, fat man, guess what you did? You done fucked up. Yesterday was the day you found out you had diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol. Fun times.

Odd, isn’t it? The year you start treating your body as an irreplaceable thing is the year you find out it’s betrayed you. But betrayal isn’t quite the right word, is it? No. Because you’ve been treating it like shit you whole life. Remember when Mom used to ask your little ass if you were still hungry and you’d nod even though you were full to bursting? Remember how you faked having asthma in high school to keep from running track during gym? Remember all the drinking and drugs and days without sleep before you met your wife and found something to live for? Remember all that fucking nonsense back when you didn’t love yourself.

Great, now you’re crying. Fuck off. Pussy. Goddamn weakling.

Don’t listen to that. That’s your father talking. Moving on.

(This is where the few people reading this will say, “Why doesn’t he just edit that out?” Well, because I want to know the frame of mind I was in today. I want to look back on this and remember that all this horrible self deprecation bouncing around inside my fucking skull is not who I am. I am better than this. What better way to realize how unstable you were than to look back from a better place and laugh and cringe and who you were. It’s motivating. Like looking back on my early writing and shaking my head and hovering my mouse over the unpublish button and finally realizing that this is me. This is where I came from. Look at me now. Holy shit, what a journey, man. So fucking smile, you goofy bastard.)

Now, in your 36th year on this earth, you find you body wearing down and want to complain about it. Guess what, bucko? You can’t. You complaining now would be like a serial wife beater getting mad because his wife finally left his ass. Now you gotta live with the fact that she’s not ever coming back and the police are at the door because she called them and it’s either do your time or swallow a bullet.

In this metaphor, doing time = meds and diet and exercise. And swallowing a bullet = doing nothing and dying because you’re a fucking moron. Which one is it? Are you still around to read this? Hell, this post might end up on one of those clickbait websites.


What didn’t you see coming? In January of 2016, you had your fifth (and hopefully final) back surgery. Afterward, you started eating healthier and being more active than you had been in a decade and just overall taking better care of yourself. Yet here we are. Twelve months have passed and you’re the most unhealthy you have ever been. Talk about a thunder-punch to the babymaker. But you know that, had you not changed your lifestyle routine, things would have been much worse. You know that. Hell, you might not have survived long enough to write this post.

But you got this. I have faith in you. That’s why you’re writing this post now. Because you’re going to look back on this and laugh. You’re going to figure this out and everything is going to be all right. You quit smoking three years back and kicked heroin sixteen years ago and you can beat this shit too. Just gotta find a way to become addicted to diet and exercise and taking meds you actually need to survive instead of that dope you call pain medicine.

If only…

Anyfuck, here you are. You’ll likely never be as healthy as you were today. You’ll definitely never again be that kid who garnered attention by drinking 50 cartons of milk at lunch. You’ll never again be able to eat sixteen sirloins and get your name on the wall of an all-you-can-eat-steakhouse in Texas (shit, the place probably isn’t even around anymore). You’re never going to be the teenager who once packed away two triple whoppers with cheese, large fry, large coke, and a Hershey sundae pie. Those days are gone, dude.

Fucking hell, is it any wonder why your body fucking hates you now?

All these memories running through your mind. All this shit you did to yourself, screaming YOLO! as if you could replace this shit factory you call a body and not realizing the irony of such a thought. How the fuck you gonna live like you only got one life to live and believe you’re gonna live forever all in the same breath? Goddamn you’re a fucking moron.

There’s Dad again. Be careful. Stop thinking like this.

Right. Where were we?

All that shit is in the past. Everything else is the future. You’re going to move on and do what you’ve done your whole life. You’re gonna survive. I love you, man. Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you tomorrow.


Pic of the Day

Me at my most lowest and most unhealthy…