Colostomy bag breakup

Dear Reid,

What gives? Two years ago, I was a flourishing graduate school student, with noble aspirations and lofty goals. Enrolled in a reputable journalism program, I was pondering about and writing on such subjects as documentary photography, portrayals of government agencies in American film, and other assorted fascinating phenomena. As I drank, smoked, and partied in the local pubs near my school, I would dream of the overwhelming success that would befall me soon after graduation.

But as of yet, those dreams have yet to be realized. In point of fact, since graduation, my life has completely bottomed out. My first job after grad school was at a television station an hour away from my house. The pay was so bad I nearly had to file for bankruptcy, my boss was a sociopath, and they never invited me to go out drinking with them on Friday night’s, claiming that “nobody wants to be seen with the research guy.” Not to mention there were hardly any bathrooms on my commute to work, and I often had to bring a change of underwear with me just in case (because you never know when mother nature will come screaming).

After that, I accepted a job at a newspaper company closer to home. My commute was shortened by 45 minutes, the pay was exponentially better, and the bathroom situation was so much better that my overwhelming excitement reached nearly carnal levels. The utopian vision of unbridled success that I had once only imagined was now being realized! That was until I got fired two months later. I guess trying to download porn to the company hard drive WAS a bad idea after all.

Anyway, as if you wouldn’t have figured this out on your own, the stress from all this anti-success was slowly beginning to eat away at my colon. Within three months, a giant zit-like mass had formed against my intestinal wall, was pushing against my bladder, and was making collecting unemployment nearly unbearable. At any rate, the doctors told me part of my colon had to be removed, but that the pain killers following the surgery would leave me in such a half-baked state that I would have no idea about the violation that had occurred within inches of my enviable unit. This was good news, taking into consideration that my friends had gone to a great deal of trouble to sneek porn into the hospital, as well as the fact that I had a girlfriend.

Wrong. Turns out my significant other had this weird aversion to colostomy bags, and told me that it was over if had to wear one following the surgery. Acting quickly and deftly, I pre-empted her abrupt ending of our relationship by ending it myself. Though, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, the stress of that breakup nearly caused me to bust a staple on my incision.

So, here I am, two years removed from graduate school. I’m single, poor, and employed as a mailroom clerk delivering faxes to jaded lawyers. Not to mention everytime I log on to the internet I’m besieged with abewelle.com pop-ups (whoever the hell he is), and when I check out the website, the friggin’ thing is never updated! And to add insult to injury, I called my old college library the other day to see if anyone had checked out my thesis, and they told me they’ve been using it in the bathrooms while waiting for the next big shipment of toilet paper.

How did such bad luck befall me Reid? Am I cursed, hexed, doomed to failure and misery in this life and beyond? Why are the gods of fate laughing as they piss into my proverbial pool?

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Meets All His Ladies on Hot Catholic Action

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