The Cure is my story about coming to grips with my depression and anxiety. However there is another element to this story and that is broader story of the Colony of Losers. This everyone who has no fucking clue what they are going to do with their lives. For those drowning in debt and those people who didn’t university. For all the mistakes you have to live with and the feeling you’ll never get out of this hole you never realized you were digging until it was too late. In the Colony of Losers, it’s not that we lack the potential to succeed; it’s just that we haven’t yet. The Colony of Losers isn’t a prison, it’s a fraternity that every single man, woman and child will pass through in their lives. Your parents were losers before they succeeded enough to only be vaguely dissatisfied with their lot in life. Bill Gates was one of us, whacking off in the bathroom to that teacher he gave an apple to that didn’t give him the time of day. Some of my friends will make great escapes, others will fall and not get up. No man is being left behind. No failure will go uncelebrated. Welcome to the Colony. It’s going to be a rocky road. May as go back to the beginning.
My job fires me, my girlfriend almost breaks up with me and I recover from a recent breakdown. What do you get? A blog. Check the actual story out. I have heard it could be considered quite touching.
This is my ranting intro, fuelled by fear, failure and the return of my sanity. Enjoy.
My first job after my first degree was as a Convenience store clerk. This was slightly disappointing for me. However years of being a lazy spoiled brat made me have little confidence in my ability to get anything not given to me. As such I took the first job I was offered.
Job-hunting needs to begin on Monday. Otherwise you reach Wednesday and you’re half way to Friday and nothing gets done on the weekend and you arrive at Monday again no better off than you were the week before. Actually worse because each Monday you miss you lose a little bit of your belief that a real Monday will come and your pajama pants start to stink and slowly your couch replaces the rest of the world.
What led you to my den of inequity? Were you checking your Facebook to see if people liked you? Or if your friend from highschool has a cute or ugly baby who you can say is cute and renew your long dead friendship? Were you checking your email to see if your friends wrote back. Did you just check it two times in between reading this blog. Bored. Well go on MSN messenger and see if people really want to reach out and touch you in the short intermission where you are on the internet and not touching yourself.
Today I’m going to introduce you to one of the most important members of my own colony. His name is Nole. He recently turned 19 and two years ago he became my brother. How this happened is as strange as the man himself.
Gripped by paranoia I struggled to remember my sales pitch. I had a migraine. I had all the symptoms listed on Wikipedia. The sound of saliva being sucked into sick throats and shivers went down my spine. It was the day before my 23rd birthday and I was faking sick, incredibly scared that I would come down with the mumps. Childhood doesn’t end when you want it to. It will be awhile before this 20 something grows up.
There are legitimate call centers and there are also scam call centers.I have worked at both.While legitimate call centers make you into a robot, scam call centers make you feel like the worst piece of shit the universe ever crapped out. I spent sometime as a 20 Something dying a little to make even less.
The girl closest to me is digging her fingers so far up her nostrils I think she is trying to commit suicide. I know that she won’t think I saw her. She is going to want to shake hands when we say hello. I devotedly ignore her, hoping she will go away. I should have gotten a coffee. She doesn’t notice me. She’s smiling and still picking her nose. I wonder if her fingers have started to touch her brain. Welcome to the Call Centers where 20 somethings go to see how depressed their jobs can make them.
What panicked me was I could see that each day got easier. I could stay and what began as a half assed idea to keep me afloat could become my life. Management climbed the ranks by having the stomach to keep coming back. 25 out of 30 dropped out in three weeks. In a year, maybe one would last the whole way through. If you lasted five, you’re either a manager or a complete asshole that no one else will hire. Just another day fighting depression as a twenty something.
Sometimes I feel like the best things in the world are disappearing more and more every day. Sometimes it feels like we all missed our chance to be a part of something great. I became a journalist when the industry crashed. I started writing novels when book publishing became a thing of the past. Making music when people prefer to download rather than buy music. I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel that way. Only its bullshit. One Greek family teaches that me that you have to DIY.
On the night of the last show, when I agreed to play with the poly-amorous anarchist, two alcoholics plotted his demise on different sides of town. The plans weren’t clever or diabolical, but as simplistic as the rage of men who drank 26ers and believed in the justice of their cause.
Introducing Herman Dagwood: Long Walk(Cross reference with the Cure)
It was a ten-minute walk to reach our friend’s apartment to find out whether or not he was still alive. It was a long ten minutes. One more tale of depression, 20 somethings and emergency situations.
Time travel with me, back to 1996. Herman is 17 years old, and the glory days of his Colony of Losers is about to pass. We are not the only ones time traveling. Musician and madman Eel has become unstuck in time. Acid is a helluva drug.
It takes a millisecond for this to register, and during that millisecond, Garth Brooks sings to him about his friends in low places. Herman wonders what has just happened and why everyone is laughing. The millisecond passes, the smell hits his nose, and he pukes his guts out Stand By Me style. Mr. Brooks continues, telling him that he’s not too “big on social graces…” as the ground is soaked in bile.
“I was sort of tricked into going home with a prostitute, and apparently I owe 700 dollars for it,” says John, before anxiously giggling into the phone. He can’t help it, he’s really embarrassed, and he laughs when he gets embarrassed. “Is this a joke?” asks his father. “No,” says John, finally able to contain his laughter.
Short story that fits here I guess. ”On the night he was born, as stars sparkled in the distance, as motel six customers paid their rental fees and had their secret rendezvous, a child with big brown eyes and chipped teeth opened his eyes for his first glance at the people who brought him into this world—as they quickly and quietly made their escape from his life.”
The idea for Colony of Losers was born in Portland, Oregon during the month following Obama’s election. It was just after the collapse of the American economy. These were the days when Priests prayed next to pick up trucks in Detroit. CNN reported job losses like they were sports stats. In between all the doom…
“You have two options,” explains my white haired editor. “One, you can give us his name, and we’ll talk to him and see what we can work out. The other is you don’t give us his name, and you lose your internship.” “I can’t give up the name of my source,” I say, feeling a strange…
His rap career—like most things involving my brother—began as a result of a girl. While staying at the top of Middle Bay—the same residence where I would chat with acidheads about my lovelorn life while having a panic attack—my brother was falling in love. Not with the girl. He was fucking sick of the girl. After six months…
The power is out. The manager’s office is the perfect place to commit a murder. Matthew feels awkward, hoping to have suspicions assuaged. Unfortunately this is not to be. He is in fact working in a madhouse. “So they are all crazy?” my brother asks. “As in mentally unbalanced?” “All of them,” agrees the manager cheerfully, revealing his…
A still smoking roach fills the room with gray smoke.On the table lies a hundred copies of “Call Me Evil”, Gaelan Bleasdale’s latest rap album. It’s been a month since he returned from tour. During the two months on the road he played fifty shows across the United States and didn’t hear his real name [...] Will love take Evil Ebenezer away from the music he is meant to make or will it be vice versa?
“I was five years old and the Mayor was holding a tea party in the Public Gardens,” I say. I can see that I have his interest. Now to push. “It’s Natal day. I was an adorable kid. Big head, resembled Tweetybird. Used to dance with girls and once I kicked my brother in the balls because I knew I was cute enough that his girlfriend would defend me. So the Mayor takes my hand and we are walking. My grandma is smiling. So proud of me. Then a bird shits in my hair. I don’t notice. The Mayor does. He looks like he is about to puke but I won’t let go of his hand. We walk from person to person and they all can smell the putrid stink of bird shit in my hair. All look like they are about to puke. Seriously one 100-year-old woman pukes in her purse. Then a photographer wants to get a picture of the Mayor and this cute kid. Front page material. Only you can see the bird shit in my hair. During my entire childhood they called me Tweety Bird-Shit Kimber. That’s why I fucking hate birds.”
The sanity that lies behind the panic and paralysis of being a member in the Colony of Losers is the knowledge that if others can escape it, you can too. For me this hope has been manifested in the life that my sister Emily has made for herself. Somehow out of the confusion and fear of her mid twenties she has become an adult and a pillar of strength for me in the toughest times of my life.
At graduation I worked very hard to not answer this question. “So what are you going to do now?”
Mike Kimber officially gives you a permission slip that says in standard legalese: “You are allowed to get fucked up and find yourself. Tell any grandparent who wants you to join the Navy and become an adult, that we know you can’t purchase a life by making a life and spending your life paying for it. We won’t get married until we have seen the end of fairytales and found a best friend on the other side. We won’t take a shitty job that will last a lifetime for the health insurance. We are a generation born of easy answers and simple solutions and we have choked on the silver spoon. Now is the time to panic.”
Self help Guru sends me a letter attempting to bully me into buying his new age product. This is my reply, where I earnestly worry that my old friend has gone senile and needs to be placed in a home.
Title says it all. First story I wrote anyone liked. This one goes back to the days of Grade 10. Back before I had a beard. AKA before I was the person you know and love.
Many people would probably discuss their book in their book proposal. I didn’t. I performed a poem. Why? Because I just don’t give a fuck and the size of my cojones are debilitating.
I tend to stay away from opinion blogging but I found myself moved by the recent suicides of gay teens in the states. I started thinking of my LGBT friends and had to write something.
Naked models, Nuti Blanche and leaving Halifax for Toronto. Follow this Nova Scotian as he begins his attempt to become king of the hipsters and learn the secret of skinny Jeans!
Not all stories are of failure. This is my greatest momentary success! I brought pajamas to my interview with my distinguished literary agents. Why? Read more to find out why.