I spent the month of October sending out a bunch of pitches for articles about important things that I took the time to think about and find connections to current events only to either be rejected or hear back nothing most of the time. Then I see that, a couple days ago, The Week published this shit:
My wife and I have been married for 37 years. I am lost without her.
No, she's not dead. She went on a trip to Australia. This is an article about a man who literally cannot take care of himself.
With my wife gone, the refrigerator was mostly things in tin foil and rice. There were reserves in the freezer, but those would have required thawing and heating. I figured if I rationed the rice and added chick peas and egg whites my supply would last most of the two weeks she'd be gone and I wouldn't have to order takeout or use more than a minimum of utensils, or turn on the stove.
By Day 4, I was eating tuna from a can with pretzel sticks.
One evening I detected an awful smell in our dining room, certain it was a dead mouse. It got worse over the next few days and I mentioned it to Sarah. "That's probably the flowers — you need to throw them out," she instructed. (She was right — the long-stemmed purple alliums had turned putrid right under my nose.)
He literally lost weight because he couldn't feed himself. Somehow he couldn't figure out that some flowers dead long enough to start rotting needed to be thrown out.
I'm thinking about supplementing my freelance writing income with DoorDash. How much did The Week pay Allan Ripp to write about how he's worse at taking care of himself than the average pre-teen? How is he not too humiliated to even tell anyone, let alone have this story published at The Week?
Was the moral of the story that he's a pathetic manchild who can't function without a woman to take care of him and all men should strive to be better than his worthless example?
NO. IT'S JUST "OH GOOD MY WIFE IS HOME, NOW I CAN GO BACK TO TAKING HER FOR GRANTED, I AM NOT EXAGGERATING.
But now my wife is back. My nutrition has improved and I'm using real dishes again. The sight of a chopping board covered with celery and carrots is thrilling. I'm still reading the paper during dinner, but at least Sarah is beside me looking at her Kindle or talking on the phone with her mother. She's found a new Netflix series for us to watch. Life is good.
Having her home has taught me an important lesson — I'm still a stick-in-the mud, but I am whole.
HE COULDN'T EVEN USE THE TV. HE LET THE BILLS GO UNPAID.
At least this guy is in his late fifties at least, but I swear, there are tons of guys my age who don't know the basics of taking care of themselves. Please, don't be like this. Learn how to make basic foods, learn how to pay bills, learn to recognize when plants are dead, learn how to operate your appliances, and fucking go to the grocery store. Do not be like this dude. Put some value into this article taking up space where my writing could be.