I DON'T NEED ANOTHER FUCKING PROMISE. I NEED MY LIFE BACK.
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
You know what?
I'm fucking tired.
Not the kind of tired where you take a nap, drink some coffee, scratch your ass, and suddenly everything is sunshine and rainbows.
No.
I'm talking about the kind of tired where you open your mailbox and immediately wonder which institution, corporation, political candidate, healthcare provider, or miscellaneous motherfucker has decided to waste your time today.
Because apparently existing in the United States requires a full-time administrative position, except nobody pays you to do it.
And that's particularly fucking hilarious when you're unemployed.
Let's start with healthcare.
I've got blood pressure medication showing up in the mail. Wonderful. Fantastic. Another bottle to add to the pharmaceutical collection.
Meanwhile, I already had enough of metformin and empagliflozin making me feel like absolute dogshit.
Now, I'm not saying blood pressure medication is useless. High blood pressure is serious business.
But you know what those pills aren't going to do?
They're not going to cure my unemployment.
They're not going to fix my anxiety.
They're not going to make depression disappear.
They're not going to magically deposit $4,000 into my bank account and whisper, "Congratulations, you financially responsible little bastard. Your life has been restored."
THEY'RE FUCKING BLOOD PRESSURE PILLS. NOT A PATCH FOR THE HUMAN CONDITION.
And then there's politics.
Oh, look! Election season!
Here come the smiling faces, the campaign advertisements, the promises, the slogans, and the parade of people who desperately want their old jobs back.
How fucking adorable.
You want your job back?
SO DO I, MOTHERFUCKER. GET IN LINE.
November 3rd is coming, and everybody wants my attention.
Vote for me!
Support me!
Put me back in office!
I promise change!
Change?
You mean like the change I keep finding in my pockets because my bank account is looking like the aftermath of a fucking medieval siege?
Will voting for you restore my employment?
Will it put money in my account?
Will it reverse my own stupid decisions at Haus Morgenrot?
Will it magically turn September 30th into a normal fucking payday instead of the day my employment went into the industrial shredder?
No?
Then kindly understand why I'm not particularly enthusiastic about another smiling face asking me for something.
I'm not saying elections don't matter.
I'm saying MY ELECTRIC BILL DOESN'T ACCEPT CAMPAIGN PROMISES AS LEGAL TENDER.
And while we're discussing people who desperately want something from me, let's talk about these goddamn telephone calls.
Houston.
Home sweet fucking home.
Ring ring!
"Hello, this call is about your newly shared healthcare benefits—"
CLICK.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
I didn't request your mysterious benefits. I didn't invite you into my afternoon. And I certainly didn't wake up thinking, "Gee, I hope a complete stranger calls me today to discuss healthcare products I never asked for."
And here's the best part.
Call the number back.
"This number is not in service."
OH, ISN'T THAT FUCKING CONVENIENT?
You can call me, but I can't call you?
What is this, a telecommunications séance?
Am I supposed to light three candles, stand in front of a mirror, and chant "healthcare benefits" until some asshole materializes out of my bathroom sink?
Fuck off.
Now, let's discuss another magnificent monument to human frustration.
HCA NORTHWEST.
Ah, yes.
Healthcare.
Where getting medication transferred apparently requires the patience of a Buddhist monk, the investigative skills of Sherlock Holmes, and the blood pressure of a man who has already given up on the concept of peace.
I needed medication handled through the VA.
Simple enough, right?
WRONG.
Phone calls.
More phone calls.
Requests.
Explanations.
Complaints.
A grievance.
ANOTHER FUCKING GRIEVANCE.
And somehow, despite all that effort, getting the medication situation resolved became a bureaucratic expedition worthy of its own goddamn documentary.
But billing?
OH, BILLING WORKS JUST FINE!
Over a thousand fucking dollars?
NO PROBLEM!
The billing department apparently has the operational efficiency of a military precision strike.
Need medication transferred?
Sorry, can't help you.
Need to send a bill?
RELEASE THE FUCKING HOUNDS.
And there it is, sitting in the mail like a little financial love letter.
"Hello! Remember us? We couldn't give you the resolution you wanted, but we certainly remembered how much money we'd like from you!"
How thoughtful.
How considerate.
How absolutely fucking precious.
I hope the next envelope comes with a complimentary pillow.
A very, very soft pillow.
Because apparently that's the only weapon my Lawful Neutral Paladin is authorized to wield against the collective stupidity of modern civilization.
And now we arrive at the main event.
HAUS FUCKING MORGENROT.
You know what the worst part is?
I miss my job.
There.
I fucking said it.
Not the management.
Not the administrative bullshit.
Not the investigations, the suspensions, the endless uncertainty, or the feeling that one misunderstood interaction could put my livelihood through a wood chipper.
And certainly not the people whose behavior made an already difficult workplace even more miserable.
I miss knowing where I needed to be.
I miss knowing what I needed to do.
I miss knowing when I was getting paid.
I miss working my shift, coming home, doing absolutely fucking nothing, and enjoying the simple luxury of being a boring bastard with money in the bank.
Six twelve-hour shifts?
Yeah, it was exhausting.
But there was a routine.
There was predictability.
There was a paycheck.
And when you're unemployed, you discover just how much those three things matter.
Would I have done some things differently?
Absolutely.
I can admit that.
I'm not going to sit here pretending every decision I made was blessed by the gods of wisdom.
My Paladin has high Charisma and apparently rolled a fucking potato for Wisdom.
Some decisions deserve scrutiny.
Some mistakes deserve correction.
But accountability is supposed to lead somewhere.
Training.
Improvement.
Clear expectations.
A reasonable opportunity to do better.
Not an endless bureaucratic limbo where you're sitting at home without pay, wondering whether you're still employed while the bills continue arriving with the punctuality of German fucking railways.
And when the employment finally ends, guess what?
The bills don't.
The rent doesn't.
The phone doesn't.
The cost of food doesn't.
Life doesn't politely stop and say, "Oh dear, you've lost your job. We'll suspend all financial obligations until you recover."
NOPE.
LIFE KEEPS THE FUCKING METER RUNNING.
So now I'm applying for jobs.
Warehouse.
Assembly.
Production.
Anything reasonable that pays enough to keep my head above water.
Application after application.
Click.
Submit.
Wait.
Repeat.
And every time somebody asks what my dream job is, I want to grab the nearest cactus and scream:
MY DREAM JOB IS ONE WHERE I GET PAID, GO HOME, AND NOBODY FUCKS WITH ME.
That's it.
That's the dream.
I don't need a corporate family.
I don't need motivational speeches.
I don't need somebody telling me we're all rock stars, ninjas, champions, or whatever stupid fucking animal the human resources department has decided to identify with this quarter.
I need an employer who pays me for my work.
I need healthcare that actually functions.
I need politicians who understand that people live in the real world, not inside campaign advertisements.
I need strangers to stop calling my phone about mysterious benefits.
And I need a fucking break.
Not a luxury vacation.
Not a mansion.
Not a yacht filled with champagne and women dressed like Final Fantasy characters.
Although, admittedly, that last one has some potential.
No.
I want to wake up and not immediately wonder what new financial catastrophe is waiting around the corner.
I want to buy groceries without calculating whether I'll regret it three days later.
I want to see my savings account grow instead of watching it slowly bleed to death.
I want to enjoy my games, my shows, my stupid jokes, and my ridiculous little Paladin adventures without the constant background noise of financial anxiety.
I WANT MY BORING FUCKING LIFE BACK.
And perhaps that's what makes this whole situation so infuriating.
I'm not asking the world to worship me.
I'm not asking anyone to hand me a fortune.
I'm not demanding that every inconvenience disappear.
I'm asking for the opportunity to work, earn, save, and live.
And somehow that increasingly feels like asking for the goddamn moon.
So here's my message to every institution currently competing for the privilege of irritating the living shit out of me:
To the politicians: I have enough promises. Show me results.
To the healthcare system: Patients need treatment, not obstacle courses.
To the mystery callers: If your number doesn't exist when I call back, neither does our relationship.
To the employers: Train your people, communicate clearly, and remember that your administrative decisions affect actual human lives.
And to myself?
Keep applying.
Keep showing up.
Learn from what happened.
Stop giving the past free rent inside your skull.
Because as much as I'd love to rewind the clock and return to the paycheck I knew, I cannot rebuild my future by screaming at September.
Believe me.
I've fucking tried.
And finally, to Gerald the Cactus:
You smug, prickly little bastard.
Don't look at me like that.
I have had an absolutely miserable month, and you're standing there photosynthesizing like you've got the whole goddamn universe figured out.
I WILL BEAT YOU WITH A VERY, VERY SOFT PILLOW AND THEN TAKE OVER THE WORLD.
Eventually.
After I find another job.
And pay my bills.
And maybe take a fucking nap.
Because even villains need a stable income.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Jerry's Marginalia — Unsolicited Advice from a Raccoon Who Has Also Had Enough
BE BORING. GET PAID. GO HOME. ENJOY YOUR DAYS OFF. REPEAT.
And for the love of everything holy, stop calling me about my newly shared healthcare benefits.