your unemployed friend might be losing their mind

it's a bad day to be a jobless twenty-something in the suburbs

Sometimes, I wonder if the world's so small
That we can never get away from the sprawl

Living in the sprawl
Dead shopping malls rise like mountains beyond mountains
And there's no end in sight
I need the darkness, someone please cut the lights

Arcade Fire, The Suburbs

and I'm in a state of near psychic panic because it’s half past noon and I haven’t left the house. My days have no structure and there's nothing for me to do and I'm wasting all my time and I can't help but self soothe via binge eating and smoking cigarettes and scrolling and sometimes vaping or watching p n, and I know you know all this because we've talked about it again and again, but if I don't get these words out of me, I think I might very well die right here, right now of, like, a spiritual implosion of self or something.

I'm unshaven and unkempt and there's a hole on the back of my t-shirt and the local health food store didn't have the double chocolate chip muffins I used to buy and eat two of back in high school when I would binge on them every weekend, so I walk back home empty handed. Moments later, I almost get in Dad's car to buy cigarettes, and I honestly can't believe I'm able to stop myself just in time and write this stupid thing instead.

The thought that stops me in my tracks is the mental image of clutching the full pack of American Spirit Blues after smoking the first one and being left in that daze with two shi ty choices: either dispose of the pack right then and there and go back to my spiritual malaise or on the other hand to smoke the remaining nineteen cigarettes which would be an ordeal lasting up to four days, but likely no more than two or three. That's what gets me to close the door, return the car keys, and go back to my black coffee.

The problem is this: my life is unfathomably easy and comfortable and it's starting to drive me mad. Full-on boredom fueled psychosis. I’m thinking this on the walk to get the muffins and just before turning back. I look around my lush, vibrant suburb and realize I'm living in the f ing garden of eden here. I'm a boy raised in paradise. That's got to have some kind of lasting effect on the human psyche, it's got to. My life is too easy. That must be why, at 24, I've accomplished nothing and have been lapped by so many other talented, ambitious young people who move through the world with agency, because they have to. Because nothing's been handed to them. And they don't have time or money to waste. I do. That's why I'm stumbling out of my childhood home at noon wearing shades and pajamas to try and lobotomize myself with a fresh pack, or pastry, or both.

Every time my Dad comes out of his office or someone steps out of their room, or a door closes, my nervous system tenses up and a sharp tendril of irritation courses down my spinal cord and then out into my bloodstream. I want to be alone. Don't look at me. Don't be around me. I am not to be perceived or talked to. I love you, but fuck off. Dad's new dog is whining. I need to get out of the house. I need to get out of here. Wherever you go, there you are.

Privilege. Material comfort. Ease of living. Lack of challenge or pain or strife or responsibility. Total freedom to consume. Total freedom to express. Zero structure. Zero schedule. Zero obligations. Permanent free time. Independent play. Enough money to drift aimlessly for at least a year before going totally broke. No job. No prospects. Well, actually, many prospects. A wealth of possibility. Unfathomable opportunity at fingertips. Talented friends. The chance to go for all of it, to pursue the dream, for real. Zero action. Endless rest. Rest and recovery. Rest… from what exactly. Time passing. Letting it pass. Actively trying to kill it. Killing time. Killing money. Pissing it all away. The privilege to do so. Parent's house. Parent's money. Parent's bottomless pit of love and adoration and respect and trust and unconditional ____. Fill in the blank. Daydreams of what I could be, should be.

Delusions of grandeur. Well, not quite delusions. Thank God. Some semblance of self awareness. A basic understanding of the problem. Knowledge of what's going on in here. Of the psychic forces at play. The ability to observe and pay attention. Thank God. Not everyone has this. Some people ki l themselves. At least, on some level, I'm aware that all of this is just downstream of living a soft, marshmallow life when humans are totally not meant to do it that way. I can at least try again tomorrow. Thank God I want to.

I've been through this enough times to observe a clear pattern here. I was saying these exact words a year ago. And a year before that. In almost exactly the same way. See, that's interesting. That means you can look objectively at the pattern unfolding and point out what is simply not working here.

My Dad opens two cans of sparkling water and the noise almost gives me a conniption. The clank of his Hydroflask and the slam of the basement door is enough for me to ki l and eat the dog. Dad is digging out ice cubes and making normal human sounds in his own home. I think I'm going to die. We're all going to die. That's a basic statement of fact.

Here's what's actually happening in the observable, material universe right now: my heart rate is accelerating. I think my arteries are constricting but I can't prove it. Dad’s heating up food for himself. A collage of different kitchen sounds. A full-on ground assault on my sensory system. Containers opening, closing. A zipper of a bag. Open, closed. Dishware clanking against countertop. The incessant fucking opening and closing of doors, drawers, and automobiles. Someone gag me with a spoon, as the expression goes. What was I saying.

The equation is this: lack of a clear goal + lack of time constraints (schedule) = depression. Depression = self soothing and escapism and consumption and self inflicted overstimulation. The perpetual modern death of the soul.

Little offerings of flatulence bubble through me. They reflect the urgency of last night's binge. I sat in Dad's car in front of Di Nico's eating two people's worth of cheap pizza, listening to Classical FM radio as the clock struck midnight. Swallowing thick cheesy boluses of the stuff. Staring out at nothing in particular. I told you about that already.

I should just write a book. I think it would be brilliant. I think other people would think it would be brilliant. I can imagine what people would say about it, about me. "This is really fresh."

I don't know what people want.

Maybe I should write and publish essays every day. Show the world what real grit and intensity looks like. What would Hamilton do in the 21st century. F k it, I think I just need to write the book so it stops bothering me. It's really just getting on my nerves now and I'm tired of it. I need to get a new journal and just write the whole thing by hand and when it's full, I’ll know I'm done.

So I've decided to try being a novelist, then. F k it. What else am I going to do. And I guess I'll be an essayist too. What is it that I'm doing here. This is an essay, right.

I need to stop listening to everyone else.

Do your own thing. Write a novel so it stops pestering you. Get addicted to that. There's no room for these other addictions when you have that one. You can only be addicted to so many things.

Just start the story somewhere and start filling pages with rich, textured words that feel like something going down. Follow the music.

Ok.

I might not be any closer than when I started writing this, but I feel less depressed now. I think I might post this. I probably think I'm smarter than I am. Probably most people do. I probably just want to love and be loved. Probably most people do.

Why does everyone want to be famous.

Maybe because.

Because fame has been advertised to us at a constant rate since we were all very small children. Because we’re human beings and we can't help but strive for that gleaming bright pinnacle atop our cultural hierarchy of values. Fame is a distant star that shines down from above and we’ll look up at it til it blinds us. Maybe this is as good as it gets. Maybe we're just humans doing what humans do. Maybe we were told a story once and it went like this. Maybe we've been passing that story on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until we're dead and empty and the ink runs ou