Capacity

Photo by Simon Harmer on Unsplash

Sometimes I feel like limiting the audience of a thing I write, even before I write it. I know it’s annoying. I’ll unlock something else and link it below. It’s just a weird time to be writing anything on the internet. Weird time to be writing anything at all. I should talk to my therapist. But it’s hard to prattle on about my problems that I quite literally made up in my head when the woman works for the goddamn VA where the fucking incelstaffel are wreaking havoc. We signed off a couple weeks ago with “I hope you’re still around next time.”

She said, “Yeah. Fuck. Me too.”

Then last week I got a call from a scheduler who told me my next appointment time was no longer available. They’d need to reschedule me. I asked if they fired my therapist. He sighed and said, “Honestly I don’t even know, honey.”

I said, “Yeah I guess not. Okay, sure. I don’t have a job. What’s the next available?”

He started reading me dates in October. I laughed. He didn’t. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s how it is now.”

I said, “I’m sorry everything’s shit,” and I took an October appointment. He thanked me for not being mean to him, because he works for the VA too. He said if I’m having thoughts of suicide to call the hotline. The standard reminder. I said I did once but they don’t deliver.

He laughed that time and said, “I hear it doesn’t work anymore anyhow.”

This morning I got an appointment reminder for my original appointment. I’m guessing the incelstaffel fired the best therapist who’s ever had the privilege of hearing every gross thought in my head, and she didn’t have time to cancel her appointments. I guess we’ll see when I log in, and I’m met with a fucking three minute video of Musk with a chainsaw set to the tune of Proud to Be an American.

I’m having a hard time focusing on larger things. There are too many things and they’re too large. But I know it’s not just me because one of the upsides of this goddamn nightmare is we’ve all evidently decided we will no longer expect immediate responses from one another. Text a friend and the response can come within a day or a week. No one cares. I don’t even know that any of us are apologizing for it anymore. I replied to an email from my accountant a few days later. Added the perfunctory half-felt apology at the beginning. He replied another few days later with “It’s really no rush. I don’t know why we’re paying taxes or who we’re paying them to at this point.”

Here’s a funny thing: Beginning of this year, I thought, I really should put something away, for someday. Act like an adult who’s financially responsible. So I put the limit into an IRA. I did this on January third. (See also: Why this isn’t a financial advice substack.) I haven’t looked at the damage. No need to. For now I’m just stockpiling cardboard so I can be a real estate mogul in the new economy. But I know I’m not hurting as much as a lot of people are and a whole lot of people will. Well, whether or not I’ll be hurting is annoyingly related to how y’all are experiencing this bullshit.

Subscriptions are the first thing I cut when shit gets scary. But so far all I’ve cut is a razor blade subscription. This is a huge deal to me. I’m not big on changing a thing like the razors I use. I used Mach 3s for most of my adult life, or whenever I could afford them, and for a while when I had a girlfriend who enjoyed shoplifting from Walmart. Mostly I’d use the same blade until it couldn’t shave butter. Then subscriptions happened. I joined one and had too many razor blades it seemed. So I dropped it. Joined again when I ran out. I’ve been doing that for years.

I have a brother who tries things first then tells me about it. Once he’s figured out what works, he sends me a text message urging me to get lasik because it does actually work for our eyes that are basically the same, or he’ll tell me I should be using a certain bar shampoo, or, most recently, last time I was in his kitchen, he was extolling the virtues of safety razors. He claims that since he switched, he stopped getting ingrown hairs. “Not one. Look at my neck. Do you see one? You don’t. Seriously. You have to switch. What are you paying for blades? You can get a hundred blades for ten dollars. No. Listen. The three or whatever the fuck blades? They were a scam to sell you more blades. Seriously. Look it up. And they cause ingrowns.”

I told him I too am on instagram and didn’t need to look it up. I said I’d try it. I did not. I assumed he’d forgotten. I sure as shit did. He’d probably bring it up the next time I saw him. Then a few weeks ago, I got a set of three texts.

“Buy this one.”

“It’s Canadian.”

I said, “The reviews say there’s a learning curve and I don’t need to bleed out.”

“It doesn’t mean you cut yourself. Just takes a minute to learn how to hold it at the right angle. But it won’t cut you.”

We don’t need to mention this to my brother. But I bought a Henson razor because it’s Canadian. They’ve made that fact hilariously prominent on their website. I was still worried about this “learning curve.” I’ve already emptied a few veins at super not embarrassing at all times like in a group shower in the Air Force. I never got much better at shaving. Turns out the learning curve is just that the wrong angle means nothing gets cut, not the wrong angle means slasher movie outtake. And, it’s Canadian. (I love that he knew this would be a selling point for me.) I do enjoy having a guinea pig who tries things before I do, even if he’s a little bossy about it.

I don’t even remember how we got on the subject of razors. I don’t remember what I was going to lock down below this. But I will. As always, if you’ve been fucked by these fuckstains, but for some reason still want me in your inbox, you can send me an email at houghsubstack@gmail with “comp” in the subject line. (You’re probably not the kind of asshole who sees this as an invitation to send me a long, weird email that I will not read, but in case you’re on the fence, and aren’t we all, please don’t.)

How to not blow away