Letters from Sanford Street # 487

I don't really know. Right now I have a few ideas. 

One. Is that this just isn't going to happen the way I wanted it to. I'm going to have to bite the bullet and take the money out of my Robinhood account and be done with it.

Two. I'm lost. Or. Directionless

Three. It's not longer ten thousand that I need by mid-April, like I wrote in my poem. Its only 6400 at this point, but my thinking is, I might as well draw down some extra cash to prepare for relocation. Someone asked me the other day what I came to Texas for. I didn't want to say something like: "Well, as far as I can tell, I lost touch with reality." Instead I said that I had thought about leaving Missouri for a while, and that it was a toss up between St Paul - Minneapolis, and Dallas - Ft Worth.

Four. For whatever reason. I don't know, I was chatting with this young lady and I realized, for whatever reason, I just don't think I'm able to just make things happen like a real man or whatever. I think I'm more like a leaf.

Five. I have this idea. Maybe I'll apply to graduate school one more fucking time. And I really gotta fucking tell you. Fuck business. Fuck anything useful. And fuck creative writing. Stupid poetry that nobody wants to publish. I have this fucking other idea.

Fuck careers. And fuck business. And fuck science and fuck math, and fuck investing and fuck the future fuck dating. Fuck gas stations. Fuck restaurants. Fuck life and fuck paychecks.

Fuck everything that makes me unhappy.

Fuck real estate. Fuck the stock market. And fuck cryptocurrency. Fuck technology and fuck the internet. Fuck mobile apps. And the metaverse.

Fuck letters of fucking recommendation and fuck the strength of my fucking portfolio. That I obviously don't even fucking have. 

Fuck hot dogs and being hungry in the morning.

Fuck gasoline. Fuck relocation. 

Fuck driving across town to get a chicken roller because I feel awkward about walking out on the job from he gas station.

Anyway.

I gotta tell you.

Fuck planning for a retirement, and fuck planning for a rainy day.

Well. I honestly don't know how much I no longer give a shit, but I almost no longer give a shit. 

But. I almost don't even give a shit if I get rejected, but I kind of think that not giving a shit is almost the kind of thing that gets a person rejected.