I'm not clinically depressed... I'm just an a** h***

It’s been a long week, so with your permission I’d like to rant or do something akin to it. First off, I’m not clinically depressed. In the simplest of terms, I just think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m an asshole. I think embracing the fact that I’m an asshole is therapy in its own right. It’s rather liberating I think. Before I thank the academy for this breakthrough, I’d like to thank my dear old step dad. Thank you dearest step dad for measuring my food intake when I looked like an adolescent version of John Candy ala “Wagons East.” Thank you step dad. Thank you dearest step dad for making me terribly afraid of food at large. With every calorie indulgence, I see your mug and I see that horrid picture of my fat adolescent self cradling a Big Mac. Thank you dearest step dad for calling the love of my life a “coke head” and thank you for making me so miserable that I wallowed, post college, with my thumb up my ass like some vagabond out of a Kerouac novel. Kerouac is good, he wrote “On the Road.” Trust me here, the reference makes sense if you read “On the Road.” But I’m an asshole and you maybe you can’t trust an asshole with a literary compass. Fuck, I’m rambling again. Oh yeah, my step dad. Thank you for pointing out my hang overs and my cocaine addicted weight loss after you spent half of my existence telling me I was fat and worthless. Moving on….. Thank you to all of the fucking pretty people in that one horse suburb I called home once upon a time. Thank you for fucking torturing me when I was pretty much an insult comic’s wet dream. Thanks to you and your fucking clique, I pretty much detest and or mistrust all but a few members of the human race. Thank you. Thank you; you petty little shits. And thank you Facebook for leading me to one of these inhuman little trolls by pure happenstance. Nothing brings your existence into a clearer light than being shown a picture of a smiling faced little shit, now all grown up, who took great pains to mine your imperfections for a few yucks. It’s alright, I blocked the fucker. With these two instances alone, I have accepted the fact that I’m a damaged asshole with a penchant for unavailable women and an ego made of mush. And…. this is big….. I have accepted my life doppelganger. I am, fittingly, the Crash Davis of life. I am, now and forever, the career minor league catcher full of piss and vinegar and semi wisdom. I accept the fact that I am a raving pain in the ass and thanks to the serenity prayer, I accept the fact that I can’t change that. To try and be anything but a misanthrope would be like taking a fish out of its natural habitat. I am, now and forever, a misanthrope. I am a misanthropic career minor leaguer who had the privilege of having sex with an absolutely beautiful woman who I accidentally sent to the land of lesbianism. I am an asshole, ladies and gentlemen. I am, Crash Davis. My life is an antiquated minor league ballpark, a sea of potential and the gorks that simply didn’t fall. I will never make it to Yankee Stadium or “The Show” and I will never look like anything out of central casting. More likely, I’ll probably play the heel like character actor JT Walsh used That’s my kind of guy. Danish eating, chain smoking, portrayer of heavies on the big screen. I won’t mention that he had a grabber one day and died, that’s a bit of a downer. Resist Tyranny!!! Toot!!! Toot!!!!