I've lived long enough to know it doesn't matter how big or influential you become — in the end, you're just going to be forgotten. So why bother so much with trying to survive? We're bound to be selfish, and how good we feel is all that really matters to people.
I'm like anyone else. I've got a past I resent, a present I try to survive without getting into trouble, and a future I hope somehow turns out bright.
My resentments come from how long I took to man up back then, and from my inability to think beyond despair and anxiety. So I took the first road I found: turning off my spirit and just going with the flow.
Some days I feel so hollow that, sticking to those despair-driven solutions, I wonder what would happen if I shot my brains out or ate a bullet — maybe the taste would break my stupor. With the way life's going, and ignoring my family's stupid optimism, I'll probably die doing some unimportant job like most of my friends. And maybe, just maybe, I'll manage to buy a house that future generations will sell without a second thought.
Hahaha…
Oh, fuck — I'm already late for work.
And why do I even go?
As for why I keep going… I don't even know myself. I get dressed at record speed, grabbing whatever edible-looking object is lying around the kitchen to keep my gastritis quiet.
Yes — in the present, I just want to survive.
The moment I step out of my single-room suite, the streets hit me with the usual parade: crammed buses and faces too lifeless to care if someone is breathing down their neck — same as me.
I check my "breakfast."
A rotten banana.
Fantastic. Lucky me.
I look around and see the same faces, the same buildings — the same crap. I sigh and drag myself into the next crowded bus headed toward the main street.
If I think about four years ago, when I was full of hope and expectations, everything inside me twists. I still don't understand why the hell I made the choices I made. I was never dumb; I'm supposedly smart and all that useless shit.
And yet… here I am.
What a joke.
If life gave awards for trying and getting nowhere, I'd be the global top scorer.
Hahahahaha.
Anyway, I'm heading toward a "great future," right?
I work two shifts and accept any task that puts money in my pocket. Although I'm employee of the month, it didn't get me anything except an empty title, because even my tasks at the restaurant aren't defined — not even for me.
When the head chef is getting a blowjob from his blonde girlfriend, I'm the one handling the kitchen. And when he finally shows up, I do the deliveries. For both jobs, I only get paid as a delivery guy.
The food we serve has the same flavor, the same smell, it looks exactly the same — so the difference is in our résumés. His says graduated from chef school. Mine says barely finished high school.
And of course, I'm the manager's dirty secret. He won't allow me to tell anyone, or let anyone but his people see me cooking.
I keep in mind the reason why I keep going — even though all I want to do is plummet that manager motherfucker — and it's the paycheck.
Part of it goes to my mom. Part of it keeps me alive. Whatever's left goes into a tiny fund I'm building. A fund that, hopefully in the near future, will let me buy my own food stall.
Yeah, I know — big revelation.
I cook, so I want my own street stall.
I'm not just another loser. I'm another loser with a dream.
Remember: the king dreams he is king, and lives with this delusion.
Well… I'm not a king. I'm not even a farmer.
I'm a slave.
I get off the bus — and if getting on was difficult, getting off is almost impossible. In the middle of it, I accidentally slap three faces and somehow end up touching an old woman's ass.
Yay.
As if heaven itself blessed me before dropping me into hell.
And there it is, right in front of me: the big restaurant.
Fuck.
It's 9:05.
Someone is about to meet the devil.
I have to admit, if you're a customer, this place looks like a good idea: same prices as anywhere else, big windows, veneered walls, wooden tables, nice lighting, a few plants here and there.
Very Instagrammable.
But if you look at it as a worker, it's a nightmare. More things to clean. More things to watch out for. And when you add the unfair paycheck, it just sucks.
Then, as if a choir of angels decided to fuck with me, a mystical "good morning" breaks the silence.
"You idiot. Tell me you didn't get stupid overnight and forget how to tell the time."
Nice way to say good morning, manager, I think.
He kicks a bucket and points at a broom.
"Some puke from last night. Last minute. I've been waiting for you to clean it. What the fuck are you waiting for?"
Amazing — as if that counts as a promotion.
I'm the cleaning guy, delivery guy, and replacement chef.
All in one.
As I drag myself to do someone else's job, the smell hits me. Despair tightens my jaw, and I get the damn thing done.
Enduring.
Enduring.
And enduring.
But I swear — someday, I'll stand up.