Every Sunday night, I drag bedtime out like a little kid. Not because I’m not tired — I’m always tired — but because Monday morning is right on the other side. And I already know how it’s gonna go: wake up, make lunches, work, eat lunch, drive home, make dinner, do dishes, do chores. Then crash. Then repeat.

Five days of that. Every week. Every damn week.
Life is supposed to be fun, right?

That’s what they told us. Somewhere between watching *The Goonies* and getting our first paycheck, we were sold this idea that if you worked hard and did the right thing, things would get easier. Spoiler: they didn’t. If anything, it just got more expensive.

Lately, Jamie and I have been so bored we’ve been hanging out at the old folks’ home — I mean…my parents’ house. Not because we have to, because… what else is there? My son is still in the Navy, doing real shit that actually matters. My daughter’s out there navigating her own world, unknowingly channeling my sarcasm and stubbornness like a champ. And me? My friends all work at Chapala Mexican Restaurant. I know they are my friends because they always call me Amigo!

I’ve seen *Groundhog Day* enough times to quote it, but now it just hits different. I used to think it was funny. Now it feels more like a documentary. Alarm clock goes off, same tasks, same mental noise. Except I don’t get a montage of personal growth or a happy ending with Andie MacDowell. I get laundry and a fridge that stares at me every night like it’s daring me to remember why I opened it.

And let’s talk about the fridge for a second. Why do I open it twelve times a day like something new’s going to appear? Spoiler: it’s still mustard and regret.

I’ve been working since I was 13 — washing dishes and bagging groceries for minimum wage. I’ve paid taxes since 1990. That’s 35 years. And what do I have to show for it? Borderline alcoholism, a sarcastic worldview, and the sound of my knees popping every time I get up too fast.
People talk about retirement like it’s a finish line. That’s cute. I’ll work right up to lunch on the day I die. Then I’m clocking out.

I even read a book called How to Stop Being Negative, Angry, and Mean. It helped a little — but yeah, I’m still a Dick.

I get it now — this life, this loop, this never-ending to-do list — it wears you down. But I also know this: I’m not the only one stuck in it. There’s a whole generation of us who survived the ’80s, adapted to technology, raised kids, and now stare at the wall wondering when the hell we get to take a breath.

But some days, I fight back. I cook something good. I learn something weird. I listen to a podcast and question reality. I sit with Jamie and laugh about how I don’t have an ass — just one long stretch of lower back that never bothered to stop. Just straight spine to thigh. Nature skipped the blueprint on that one. But I know I’ve got one — because it’s always getting kicked. By life, by assholes, by the goddamn alarm clock.

Even if this is Groundhog Life, or the Matrix… I’m still here. Still me. Still punching the clock and living the dream…one nightmare at a time!

—Dick