What the fuck is uttered in my head at least fives times a day and out loud less than that. Sometimes, I just can’t handle what’s going on in my daily life. And it’s not like anything is inherently bad, just mainly unexpected and it really puts a damper on my life.
My mom calls at seven in the morning to tell me that the family dog got the cone of shame; what the fuck. My boss sends me an email on how I’ll have to pull extra time at my mediocre office over the weekend; what the fuck. My ride share misread my location making me twenty minutes late for a movie with a friend; what the fuck. The dryer in my complex pulled the drawstring out of my sleep pants; what the fuck. My college neighbors bought the new shooter game and hosted a tourney at three in the morning; what the fuck. And this is just five examples that I can think of that have driven me up the wall and around the bend.
Sometimes, I keep a mental record of these instances, but the more I dwell, the more I think I need therapy. Lemme tell you, therapy is expensive. I usually just sleep a lot and that helps things. For the record, I love my dog back home and I love my mom, too. And I thank every driver who’s taken me anywhere and I give them a moderate amount of stars. I work in a laid back office in a nice building and I have my own desk. I only tie my drawstring when I’m expecting company. I don’t have a justified statement about my neighbors; play your games at a normal fucking time.
It’s healthy to even say what the fuck about yourself. I’ll drink a soda, choke on it as I’m swallowing, cough up a damn lung, cry my eyes out, and just be like what the fuck, and go back to drinking my soda. I’ll lay in bed after just waking up and scroll through my phone for an hour and it’ll become two hours and I’m late to work and I’ll say what the fuck. Or maybe I’ll even doze off on my couch, watching TV, wake up with matted hair and a numb mouth, go what the fuck and stay up, rewinding to where I was, only to fall asleep again.
My daily what the fuck sense has been going off more than it usually does and in response, I have decided to ignore it. Ignoring it is hard. I can’t ignore it like it’s a primal urge embedded in my brain and it just won’t shut up. It’s as if the control center of my mind has set up a hotline that calls you instead of the other way around. In even better terms, it’s more like when you get a call from your credit card company or the people who monitor your home security.
“Good afternoon, Ezra. We’ve noticed a suspicious amount of what the fuck activity and we were just checking to see if everything was alright.” And then I would go on with my imaginary phone and say “yes, I am the one who is really saying all of those what the fucks. It’s been a hectic few weeks.” Then the call center employee who really isn’t real would wish me a good day and the imaginary phone connection would click and I’d be asked to take an imaginary survey on my what the fuck customer service.
What else am I supposed to do? I’d be passed over for a promotion at my office, my neighbors brought home a new dog and a baby, and my bank account really was hacked, and I really did have to answer a phone call from a center and take a survey. Most times, I want my what the fucks to be when I’m watching dog videos on the internet and they do something cool or when I go to a fast food restaurant and they give me extra chicken nuggets.
I don’t want to use what the fuck like I’m seasoning a meal. I just need to sprinkle it in like a daily multivitamin. Five hundred milligrams, recommended by doctors who don’t care, but it is not regulated by the FDA. My use of what the fuck won’t be limited like that though; with how my life is going, I’m gonna overdose.