Alright, so earlier this week, I was actually going through some of my previous topics on a forum I hang out on, and I found a post from just under a year ago.
In that post, I was optimistic. I’d graduated from college six months previous, and had just quit what was a fucking nightmare of a job as a car salesman, and I was getting ready to move to Seattle from Colorado Springs. You can tell from the tone that I’m just pumped to finally move out of my mom’s house, going across the country. In the post, I make known the fact I’m going to be staying with my dad, but it’s going to be okay, because I’ll just get a job in Seattle and move right out. Like it’s this trivial thing.
Now, the first thing to keep in mind is that, when I first moved to Seattle, there were two things clearly off. First of all, the car that my father promised I could use until I got my own, I quickly discovered caused my stepmother to fly into absolute fits the moment I actually went near it, even when I made it explicitly clear literally weeks in advance that I would need the car for X and such thing. Inevitably, I would return home and she would corner me in the hallway, furious at me. I hope that you find my decision to stop using her car reasonable, and ultimately it was unfair of my father to promise me the use of her car, especially without her permission. I also hope you can see a twinge of spousal conflict, that will underlie the remainder of this story.
By any means, when I went to bed the first night, my room was absolutely a disaster area. I only found out about a week ago that my father had given my stepmother only about three days notice that I would be sleeping over, something which she was clearly also very resentful about. My room, previously, had more or less been a storage room with a bed in the corner, but cleanliness has never been my father’s strong suit, and good description of his house is a slightly tidied up version of “Hoarders”. Imagine like, there’s never a moment in time that something is not actively rotting in the kitchen, and you have a good idea. Imagine garbage bags hung off doorknobs instead of in actual trash-cans, and you have a better idea.
By any means, finding a job is hard, even with help. After all, it’s 2014. Less than helpful is the casual condescension my father exhibited consistently, every single time I brought up the applications I had sent out. When I was young, he would always chant to me “Graduate school, at the very least” and fuck it, he’s a dentist it seems like he knows what he’s talking about. That said, the more I found what should have been trivial jobs slamming the door in my face, the more I hated myself. The fact of the matter is, I have no passion worthy of graduate school, at the very least, none that would suit my father’s definition of achievement. I’m too nervous for law, I’m too anxious for business, and medicine and engineering goes right over my head. I might be a good musician, but I find myself in the middle of this gigantic, slowly increasing depression that paralyzes me almost entirely.
Seeing this, and sincerely hoping to help, I think, my father proposed a project. Let’s start a business- why not? I, after all, am I business major. Might be a fun father-son thing, connect with the old man, right ahaha. By any means, the overall trajectory of our project started with us shooting the shit about technology, ultimately resulting in my father strong-arming me into producing the stupidest fucking app imaginable.
This is a man who, functionally, has no idea how actual entrepreneurship functions. He has this sort of fantasy of like, oh, the app. That’s what the kids are doing, right? Everybody is making money off of those apps, how can I get in on the app game? Keep in mind, this man still uses a piece of shit burner ass pay as you go Nokia phone instead of a fucking real phone like a human being. I’m sorry if I’m resentful, but I’ve wasted nine months of my life on this fucking garbage because I was humoring him, and now I fucking despise myself.
By any means, I found a freelance dev- super fucking great guy, and he promptly started work on the app. Imagine eight months of me going into a deeper and deeper depression, having given up on the job hunt months ago, almost zero social contact outside the occasional friend who has the time to stop by the carless loser’s house, actively avoiding the stepmother who, at literally any fucking noise at all flips out (she works from home as a call center representative, something which makes her doubly sensitive, although she really should have a motherfucking office), moping over this chick I had a massive fucking crush on from high school, who I asked out after she and her boyfriend broke up, only to find out she was actively in the process of asking another dude out. I know, my bad, no harm, no foul, just smarts. My dad still bothers me about graduate school, but I feel like fucking garbage. I help with chores around the house, but when it started as a nice thing for me to do while I just happened to be staying there for a while, now it’s suddenly this fucking responsibility that I get yelled at for when the old man comes home and the dishes aren’t done.
Okay, anyway, on the app: Long story short, there was a fucking flood and the programmer’s basement flooded, along with the dev phone and all the backups. So, bye-bye app. I know he wasn’t bullshitting me during development, because I used rough versions of the app myself, and I was actively managing the process every step of the way. So I go to my dad, tell him what the score is, and that the developer has agreed explicitly to return all the money we had paid him, no questions asked. I know the app was paid for with my dad’s money, so I leave the question up to him, although I really am pressing the point that he DID act in good faith, and this was all due to an act of God. My dad, in a rare nice moment, tells me to let him keep the money, and we can change gears to work on something different. THANK YOU GOD, THANK YOU JESUS.
Until it’s the next fucking day, and my dad is acting like we never had the conversation in the first place. “He’s going to finish the app, right? I want the app!” Fucking asshole. I try to explain to him, no listen, we’re working on a game now, games are in, games are way cooler and more profitable than that terribly-conceived app- which we literally buried yesterday, why do you want to work on the goddamn app? “Find someone to make me the fucking app”. At this point, I realize I’m literally working as an unpaid project manager for a project I don’t fucking believe in. I tell him it’s not happening. I tell him, if you believe in the idea so much, you can fucking do it. There’s another project, and you could have been involved, but you’re not going to be, because you’re a fucking asshole. I don’t say that explicitly, but imagine a polite version of that. He drops it, but you can fucking tell from the way he phrases his reply, that I’m a fucking quitter to him. The fact is, he phrased the project as this big, high-minded entrepreneurial thing, when at the end of the day the real deal was “You can go fucking actually do the work, and then at the end, I get an app. I’m not paying you.” I feel like a fucking retard. I feel like I’ve been exploited for my own father. I fucking hate myself.
So this weekend we’re going to the dealership and I’m going to be buying a car. And when I get that car, I’m going to drive. And I don’t know where I’m going to go.
I don’t fucking know what I’m going to do.