I Am Dying

I will never be content for more than a few seconds consecutively, and I am dying.

I am sure the #yesallwomen tag is the most narcissistic, regressive tag in the history of internet tags, ignorant to the root issue of why that guy killed those people and maybe even, more scarily, an excuse for people who don’t receive as much attention from the opposite sex as others do to tell stories about how many times the opposite sex has shown (unwanted or not) interest in them, and I am dying.

I know saying that makes me an out-of-touch evil person, and I am dying

I run a mile every other day, and I am dying.

I don’t know if running a mile every other day is making me die, and I am dying.

I can’t find an audience at Thought Catalog, and I am dying.

I know there will come a day will I am no longer attractive to the opposite sex, and I am dying.

I know it’s possible that day has already come, and I am dying.

I misspelled the first “dying” in this post as “drying,” and I am dying.

I live in Milwaukee, and I am dying.

I go to Crossfit, and I am dying.

I see people younger and fitter than I will ever be when I go to Crossfit and they make me wonder if I was ever that young and fit, or if I just didn’t notice my youth and fitness when I was young and fit, or if I just notice now how young and fit others are compared to me, and I am dying.

I have a 36 inch waist, and I am dying.

I hate most fiction at online lit journals, yet I continue to submit and get wildly disappointed when they reject my work, and I am dying.

I wonder why anyone writes literary fiction anymore because there are so many more vital forms of creative expression, making it seem purposefully archaic to write made-up stories for the strict purpose of writing of made-up stories as they have no value outside of themselves, even the good ones which, at their very best, might resonant with a few lonely people on a heart level – which is the pathetic highest aesthetic ideal a piece of fiction can ascribe to – and I am dying.

I am prone to get turned down for less than what, and I am dying.

I think about how many social media followers I have every waking hour of my life, and I am dying.

I write novels no one, besides the people I give them to read, will ever read, and I am dying.

I will never have again the hair I’ve lost, and I am dying.

I have never been to Paris, and I am dying.

I have spent more time playing video games in my life than reading books, yet I believe writing books is essential to my being, and I am dying.

I have never had a threesome and I don’t know how it will ever happen, and I am dying.

I know using social media causes diseased thinking yet I continue to use it because I am convinced it is somehow essential, and I am dying.

I am unsure monogamy is a tenable social arrangement yet I might marry someone soon, and I am dying.

I constantly think about selling my car, and I am dying.

I spend most of my day worrying about my life, yet when I die none of those worries will amount to anything, and it’s also possible that none of things I do will amount to anything yet I will continue to worry and continue to do things because I believe it is better to live than to die even if the most integral part of being alive is worrying about being alive, and I am dying.

I get nervous when people drive behind me too closely, and I am dying.

I watch the television shows Cops and Lockup to help myself feel better about my life, and I am dying.

I spend great deal of my free time worrying that I am not spending my free time productively enough, and I am dying.

I think the best career for me would be a massage therapist but I am a man and no one wants a male massage therapist, and I am dying.

I have a lot of imaginary problems with people I hardly know, and I am dying.

I live in fear that I will drop my phone, and I am dying.

I obsess about the hairline of actors who must have had Bosley or some other kind of restorative hair transplant surgery, and I am dying.

I have never had a story published and I have submitted them, literally, hundreds of times, and I am dying.

I am using my time on earth to write blog posts about my problems, and I am dying.

I don’t believe anything happens after you die, and I am dying.

I have my back waxed, and I am dying.

I think about how many people have muted me on Twitter, and I am dying.

I finished this, and I am dying.