"The Rut" -- a something or other

This is a piece I have been working on periodically for some two years. I've tried to make it into some sort of story but keep failing to make anything of it. This is its state thus far. Any suggestions on what it may be missing is appreciated!

___

The Rut

Once upon a time you were cheery and optimistic about all things all the time, but an extended exposure to rejection and fools in men's clothing have left you pondering the absurdity that is this life. "What is this life?" is a question you're constantly asking but you've yet to receive a reply other than a sad, slow smile, probably because your question has no answer in the mortal world.

At night you fall asleep mourning the loss of your youth -- of which your mother never fails to remind you while awake. Though nowhere near over the hill in your time, your potential is as good as buried in the eyes of your elders and it’s unfortunate that you allow yourself to believe it. In turn, the sleep to which you once so happily submitted is now wracked with lucid dreams of an exhausting nature and not only do you wake with unrest but also an unnamable failure which wanes into a melancholia. It's not just a melancholy that lingers, but also a dash of loneliness and a spoonful of the infinite sadness. They seem to just be there and you can never figure out how or why they got there.

A meager income from a customer service job doesn't help your disposition. Instead, it only cements your hate for the human race. You end every shift with melancholy thoughts of self loathing and wishful dreams of never being born, or having been born a different species that didn't require the use of emotions. You wonder why we're made to feel anything at all yet alone anything hurtful. If we could omit emotions life would be a lot more bearable. It would be very mechanical and everything would be done efficiently and concisely. Instead, you're dismayed that you're built in a way in which an impolite civilian could sour your mood enough to make you question the need for human emotion.

What is this life? Once again you find this question swimming through your agonised mind. All your life you've been the good one, the role model, the one the kids could look up to and admire. It's tiring and it's a damn bore. You're sick of being good and pure. You're not responsible for setting a good example for anyone. You have no one in your life who looks to you for advice or assistance in being a human being. All this time it was a waste being what you were -- being good -- because all it meant is that you were too much of a fool to have any real, proper fun.

Proper fun, you've discovered, is consuming ridiculous amount of alcohol with your closest friends. Each of you makes an ass of yourselves but it doesn't matter because these are the people who will love and accept you regardless. They will not cast judgment or shun you because your lifestyle or world opinion differs from theirs. On the contrary, they will embrace your difference and be even more eager to converse with you because they too are tired of being good and tired of meeting other good people. They want to have debates and discussions and arguments. They want their intellect challenged and they want to be shown a new way of looking at life which, for so long, was just what you lived and nothing more or less.

The hangover the following day could be a deal breaker for you if it wasn't being suffered in unison by your drinking partners and fellow coworkers. The nerve-wracking, patience-testing career of a retail worker already puts to test just how strong a person is, but doing it while suffering a murderous hangover is the ultimate test. You've yet to fail this test and you're proud of this accomplishment. You're also proud of the fact that you continue to put yourself through this and worse fates -- working a nine hour shift hungover and on three hours of sleep, for example -- despite theatrically announcing "Never again!" at each hangover. The way you figure, it's a small price to pay for not having to deal with the sadness in which your mind constantly swims.

You're doing everything you can think of to occupy your mind. The misery overwhelms you and distracts you from your everyday life and in order to get back some of your old life, you decide to impulsively do things you otherwise would have spent months mulling over. The sudden desire to get drunk all the time is one example of this, while taking up the occasional cigarette is another. You've gone and gotten a tattoo that you may or may not regret later. You're also craving a man, but even in your desperate state not just any man will do. You have standards far too high for any mortal man, or so your friends tell you. But you're always quick to remind them that there is at least one man who met your high standards. But that is the same man who broke your heart, your friends remind you and you have no response to this.

You're scared to give up, though, because a big part of you has always believed there is something worth living for. But the older you get the more you start to doubt this notion. You wonder how you could become more intelligent and experienced and instead of being glad you regret it more than anything because all it has done is open your eyes to unhappiness. It's a deep rooted unhappiness that sticks to your heart like plaque and is impossible to scrub off. You want nothing more than to wallow in your own misery and hope that it will evaporate someday after you've paid you dues -- those being the inevitable suffering of this misery -- but that never happens. You just fall deeper until the misery is what defines you. And the worst part of it is that you probably never even know that you're defined by your misery.

Once upon a time creating art was how you dealt with your problems. Writing soothed your soul at troubled times but then your troubles got to be more than you could handle. Writing started becoming an escape but the whole while you were running away you knew that you should be facing these troubles head on instead. So, you stopped writing, but you didn't face those troubles either. As a result, you were caught in a limbo where your wounds remained uncared for save a few sloppy bandages to make do. You’ve tried returning to the craft but it’s far easier to want to return to it than actually falling back into the routine of it. Your fountain of words has dried up and a rogue sentence here or an untamed poem there is all that spurts out anymore.

You’re weak and at a loss, and feeling stagnant. The uphill climb that is getting your life back to the way you prefer is discouraging enough that you’re willing to just say “Fuck it!” and wallow eternally. Would that be so bad after all?

"A Confession"

I hate women in general.
They make the worst kinds of friends.
Most of them are criminals
Because they steal all my men.

They love to make me jealous
With their thin bodies and naturally great hair,
While I work hard on my appearance
And have wobbly bits here and there.

They’re beautiful and successful
And confident to boot,
While I’m always miserable
Because I’m lucky to just be “cute.”

Men aren’t any greater,
But here’s the truth:
I’d rather be the only hen
In the roosters’ coop.