I have accepted that I will likely never bartend again.
This being said, I am still applying to bartending jobs.
The elders in my life have told me that I must choose – I must choose between music, writing, and bartending. I can only do one. (I used to work two jobs, go to school full-time, and do community work, but I digress.)
I must vertically integrate – I must climb one ladder, and dedicate my life to it. This is how careers work – there is no such thing as part-time jobs, there is no such thing as gig work, and there is no such thing as love.....
Today, someone made fun of me for ordering Wendy's to their house when I was homeless, and falling asleep before I could even eat the order -- I pointed out that I had gotten off of work in downtown Detroit at 1 a.m., took one bus, waited at the bus stop near Grandale in the cold, with a broken phone, took a second bus and walked to their house, crawled onto their couch around 4 a.m., and that this was my everyday life, this was everyday for me, and I just wanted a burger because that was all I had to look forward to, lmao.
At my grandmother's funeral, her brother/my great uncle told me that he is worried about the state of the world. That he is worried about how selfish everyday people are becoming.
I am starting to understand him.
I have never felt more alone in my life. I have never felt so far away from everyone -- people I thought who loved me, who watched me endure crisis after crisis, and their only reaction was to tell me that I wasn't trying hard enough, that I must be lying, that there must be something wrong with me, why wasn't I making good art yet? They said things like accountability, like ugh ur so much phoenix we need boundaries, while I screamed at men to not follow me home late at night, while I lost 60 pounds because I couldn't reliably afford food, while I cried about my recently deceased grandmother alone, while my roommate screamed at her boyfriend in the yard late at night, while a guy I barely knew with power over me was trying to coerce me into something I did not want, while my new coworkers made comments about how I was socially like, really weird and a "know-it-all" from Ann Arbor, while my family told me to get out and not come back, while people at karaoke competitions and open mics laughed at me and tried to figure out my *thing* -- what I must be lying about, while people would come up to me unsolicited and say that I was a horrible author who didn't read, while I slept in a rented room where the heat would drop to 40 degrees, with no locks on my doors, while my life fell apart in every single way -- and I was fucking sober this time. I wish I had relapsed. At least then there would be something to blame. Every day kept getting worse.
I used to be a nice person, despite my own trauma or whatever beforehand. And yet, after this year, I don't know if I can ever be nice again. I don't know if I can trust anyone again. I am starting to believe that there is no such thing as love.
The other day, I asked ChatDBT what love is....
