THE PENDULUM CAN KISS MY ASS
Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Beat the Entire World with a Very, Very Soft Pillow
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that sleep cannot fix.
It's not the exhaustion of working twelve hours. It's not the exhaustion of walking around all day, dealing with idiots, or wondering whether the refrigerator contains dinner or another goddamn disappointment.
No.
It's the exhaustion of constantly having to negotiate with existence just to live an ordinary fucking life.
I don't want to conquer the world.
I don't want a yacht.
I don't want a gold-plated toilet with Bluetooth connectivity and a subscription-based flushing service.
I want to work, get paid, buy groceries, see my doctor, and occasionally sit on my ass without somebody inventing a mandatory fucking activity.
Apparently, this is an unreasonable demand.
THE GREAT FUCKING PENDULUM
When I was employed, I had money coming in.
Wonderful!
Unfortunately, I had approximately seventeen minutes of personal freedom, and twelve of those were spent wondering whether I had enough time to take a shit before somebody needed something.
Six days on. Two days off.
Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep.
And somewhere in there, I was supposed to schedule medical appointments, take care of personal business, eat something that didn't come in a greasy bag, and pretend I had a meaningful relationship with the concept of leisure.
Then comes the mandatory bullshit.
Oh, you have a day off?
NOT ANYMORE, MOTHERFUCKER!
Here's a mandatory activity!
Here's a scheduling inconvenience!
Here's another reason to use the sick time or PTO you thought belonged to you!
And if you need to see a doctor?
Well, have you considered scheduling your medical needs around the company's convenience?
Splendid idea. I'll tell my cardiovascular system to submit a fucking PTO request.
DEAR HEART: PLEASE REFRAIN FROM MALFUNCTIONING UNTIL MANAGEMENT APPROVES YOUR ABSENCE.
Sincerely,
The Department of Go Fuck Yourself.
Then I lose the job.
And suddenly the pendulum swings the other direction.
Now I have time.
Oh, boy! Time!
TIME TO DO WHAT, EXACTLY?
Time to stare at a bank balance?
Time to apply for another twenty jobs?
Time to wonder whether the unemployment bureaucracy has finished interrogating my existence?
Time to calculate whether a $2.23 box of tea bags is a reasonable financial decision?
Congratulations!
I've traded money without freedom for freedom without money.
WHAT A FUCKING BARGAIN.
F'K U, HAUS. AGAIN.
Ah, Haus Morgenrot.
My beloved former employer.
You magnificent monument to administrative indigestion.
For seven months, I showed up to do a job.
Not to become a corporate philosopher.
Not to join a cult of mandatory enthusiasm.
Not to participate in a theatrical production titled Human Resources: The Musical — Everybody Loses.
I wanted to work my shifts, get my paycheck, and go the fuck home.
That's it.
BE BORING. GET PAID. REPEAT.
But apparently boring wasn't complicated enough.
No, we needed investigations, suspensions, uncertainty, and the special joy of sitting around without pay while the bills continued behaving as though nothing had happened.
Because electricity doesn't accept explanations.
Internet providers don't accept emotional distress.
And Walmart certainly doesn't accept I'm currently awaiting an administrative decision as legal tender.
Then came the termination.
Seven months of routine, gone.
And you know what I miss?
Not the bureaucracy.
Not the mandatory nonsense.
Not the uncertainty.
THE FUCKING PAYCHECK.
I miss knowing that my labor would become money on a predictable date.
I miss buying a loaf of bread without convening the House Committee on Financial Responsibility.
So thank you, Haus.
You've successfully taught me that even the simple ambition of going to work and going home can apparently become a complicated fucking ordeal.
Your participation trophy is in the mail.
It's a pillow.
A very, very soft pillow.
I'm going to hit your entire administrative apparatus with it until somebody develops common sense.
Which means I'll probably be there until the heat death of the universe.
THE JOB MARKET: ANOTHER CIRCUS WITHOUT A TENT
Now we enter the magical kingdom of job applications.
Apply here!
Upload your résumé!
Now type everything from your résumé into seventeen separate boxes!
Now tell us why you want to work here!
BECAUSE YOU PAY MONEY, YOU BEAUTIFUL FUCKING TURNIP.
That's why!
I have nothing against honest work.
Warehouse? Fine.
Production? Fine.
Assembly? Fine.
Moving boxes from Point A to Point B while contemplating the philosophical failures of mankind?
SIGN ME THE FUCK UP.
But apparently applying for an ordinary job now requires the patience of a Buddhist monk, the credentials of a nuclear physicist, and the willingness to participate in a hiring process designed by a committee of malfunctioning vending machines.
Congratulations! You meet our qualifications!
Would you like an interview?
YES!
Wonderful!
THERE ARE NO INTERVIEW TIMES AVAILABLE.
Then why the fuck did you invite me?!
Is this employment or a goddamn escape room?
And the rejection letters!
We've decided to move forward with other candidates.
Excellent.
May those candidates enjoy moving forward.
I'll be over here moving sideways through the financial equivalent of a burning clown car.
THE BUREAUCRACY OF PROVING I EXIST
And then there's unemployment.
A beautiful system in which a person who has lost their income must now complete additional administrative labor to demonstrate that they have, in fact, lost their income.
Verify your identity.
Submit your information.
Wait for a decision.
Check your correspondence.
Verify something else.
Please remain available for work.
Please document your work searches.
Please consult the sacred calendar of bureaucratic mysteries.
I AM RIGHT FUCKING HERE.
I exist!
I'm unemployed!
I'm applying!
Would you like a blood sample?
A stool sample?
Perhaps a notarized affidavit from Gerald the Cactus confirming that I have not secretly been employed as a professional mattress tester?
And while we're waiting, the bills continue.
Because bills are the only employees in America who never miss a fucking shift.
THE FORTY-DOLLAR GROCERY TRIAL
Today, I purchased groceries.
Fourteen items.
Bread.
Hot dogs.
Tuna.
Breakfast.
Laundry detergent.
Toilet paper.
Tea bags.
Sweetener.
Not cocaine.
Not a diamond-encrusted gaming throne.
Not a private helicopter with a raccoon chauffeur.
FUCKING GROCERIES.
And I examined that cart like I was auditing the Pentagon.
Thirty-five dollars?
Thirty-seven?
What about taxes?
What about the tip?
What about the temporary authorization hold?
Am I allowed to spend two more dollars?
WILL THE FINANCIAL UNIVERSE COLLAPSE IF I PURCHASE TEA?
And that's when the absurdity finally hit me.
I was worrying about the cost of making my own iced tea because buying the premade stuff had become too expensive.
Do you understand how fucking ridiculous that feels?
I wasn't choosing between a Ferrari and a Lamborghini.
I was choosing between TEA BAGS AND MORE EXPENSIVE TEA.
Somewhere, a billionaire is probably purchasing his third vacation property.
Meanwhile, I'm performing long division to determine whether a gallon of iced tea can be produced without financially destabilizing the republic.
And the worst part?
I'M NOT EVEN WRONG TO CHECK.
Because the money matters.
Because there's no paycheck replacing it yet.
Because a few dollars here and there become real money when the income stops.
That's the part that makes me angry.
Not the arithmetic.
The necessity.
EVERYBODY WANTS A PIECE OF THE FUCKING WALLET
And while we're at it, can we discuss the modern economy's obsession with subscriptions?
Everything wants a monthly payment.
Everything wants an upgrade.
Everything wants premium access.
Want to watch something?
Subscribe.
Want to play something?
Subscribe.
Want to speak to someone?
Subscribe.
Want to see a photograph?
PAY TO UNLOCK!
Want another photograph?
PAY AGAIN!
Want to discover whether the person asking you to pay is even interested in having a conversation?
CONGRATULATIONS! THAT'S ANOTHER FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS!
No, thank you.
I enjoy entertainment.
I enjoy fantasy.
I enjoy a little ridiculous theatrical nonsense.
But I am not interested in financing somebody else's endless carnival of manufactured urgency.
An illusion is entertainment.
Deception designed to empty your wallet is bullshit.
And I have had quite enough bullshit to fertilize every cactus in Texas.
Gerald, stop smiling.
You're not getting any.
BEHOLD MY TERRIFYING REVENGE
So what am I going to do about all this?
Burn down the world?
Declare war on civilization?
Construct an orbital laser shaped like an enormous middle finger?
No.
I'm going to do something far more terrifying.
I'm going to retrieve...
A VERY, VERY SOFT PILLOW.
And then I shall march upon the forces of inconvenience.
HR?
Poomf.
Mandatory scheduling nonsense?
Poomf.
Job applications that lead nowhere?
Poomf.
Subscription traps?
Poomf.
Financial anxiety?
POOMF, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE BASTARD.
Every petty inconvenience that has made life unnecessarily difficult shall receive one gentle, completely nonlethal, spectacularly undignified pillow strike.
There will be no blood.
There will be no casualties.
There may, however, be an unprecedented number of mildly confused assholes wondering why a furious Paladin is attacking the universe with bedding.
And when the authorities arrive, I shall announce:
"I AM LAWFUL NEUTRAL, OFFICER. THE PILLOW IS WITHIN REGULATIONS."
Then I shall return home.
Make some tea.
Pet the dog.
Play a video game.
And apply for another fucking job.
Because beneath all the profanity, mockery, and imaginary pillow-based warfare, the truth is painfully ordinary.
I DON'T WANT EVERYTHING. I WANT ENOUGH.
Enough money to pay my bills.
Enough time to see my doctor.
Enough freedom to enjoy a day off without somebody trying to requisition it.
Enough stability that buying toilet paper doesn't require a financial risk assessment.
Enough peace that I can stop wondering which new piece of bullshit is going to arrive tomorrow.
I don't need everybody to love me.
I don't need an employer to become my family.
I don't need strangers on the internet to promise me the moon.
I need people to do what they say, respect boundaries, and stop making simple things unnecessarily fucking complicated.
And I'd like to stop being angry about money.
Not because money is everything.
But because worrying about money has a remarkable talent for turning everything else into another problem.
I'm tired.
Not defeated.
Not surrendering.
Just tired of being forced to fight battles that shouldn't need fighting in the first place.
So the job hunt continues.
The tea will be brewed.
The bills will be examined.
The Paladin will continue his profoundly unglamorous quest for ordinary stability.
And the next time the universe decides to test my patience?
I'll be ready.
Pillow in hand.
Raccoon at my side.
Cactus trembling in the distance.
BE BORING. GET PAID. GO HOME.
And to every person, institution, subscription service, mandatory activity, and bureaucratic circus that has made those three things harder than they need to be:
FUCK YOU.
Poomf.
Jerry's Marginalia — Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice
Life is hard enough without volunteering to become somebody else's inconvenience sponge. Protect your money, protect your time, and remember: the pillow is soft, but the contempt is industrial-grade.