on Shrugging That Shit Off

For as long as I can remember, my defense mechanism has been shrugging shit off. And boyyy have I gotten good at it. Didn’t matter what was fucking with me: having to show up to a job I hated, being unable to stop taking painkillers, drunkenly dialing an old fling only to realize, “Damn, this shit really is over,” or making little progress in repairing my deteriorating relationship with family. You shrug it off and go on about your day.

Then a few years ago it hit me. I was moping around my “home office,” sighing and scratching the five o’clock shadow spilling down my neck, “working on my screenplay in my mind,” wearing sweatpants on a Wednesday afternoon. None of this meant I was a tortured creative genius. It meant I was a fucking LOSER. I couldn’t shrug that off. I had to face it head-on. So I got a job traveling the world, made a ton of money, joined a gym, gained perspective, called my grandma, and wrote a screenplay. That led to better life choices etc. etc. etc. and here we are.

Now I appreciate the stakes and understand how my shortcomings have flourished in the confines of my most important relationship: the relationship with myself. You know those dummies with the black and yellow pie charts on their foreheads who are always smashing into windshields in slow motion? And in the slowed-down instant before impact, you can almost hear them say, in their mannequin drones, “Oh, I get it—I should have worn my seat belt?” I’m one of them, learning all these important lessons too late, in that melancholy split second, just as things begin to fall apart.

But BOY IF THIS LIFE HASN’T BEEN A HELL OF A RIDE, so on we go.