The Book of DanielThe Official Blog of Daniel Douglas
Devil Daniel Must Die
Every time you hit the “Like” button above this post, an angel gets his wings. I would badger you to subscribe to my blog as well but I’m pretty sure that “RSS” button in the menu is busted. So if your browser crashes, I’m sorry. But not really.
Anyway, I’m going to try to keep myself to a respectable word count from now on. I submit easily to the oppressive bullying of a long, verbose sentence. Anyone who has heard me start in on a topic – from missives of the coming avian apocalypse to the singular bull-headed pushiness of middle-aged female bus passengers – knows my unwanted assault of words stops only for food, drink or a hastily administered syringe of horse tranquiler to my carotid while I’m not paying attention. I’m a narcissist with a tragic lack of self esteem – how’s that for a messy contradiction – and can’t see myself limiting my output past March.
Why Can’t You Just Move On?
A man left to his own devices – to, in my case, fester in a basement, stomach distended and rumbling from a recently consumed, six-day-old pizza, popcorn kernels stuck to my bare feet, a television roaring NFL highlights or Slap Chop infomercials – is an example in reverse Darwinism.
A solitary man reverts to barbarism; a pre-verbal savagery. In any given week you can find me clipping my toenails into the toilet while drinking $13 wine from a plastic Big Gulp cup; performing naked yoga in my living room; contemplating the costs of installing a urinal in my bedroom so I won’t have to walk 8 feet to the bathroom in the middle of the night; falling asleep with chicken nuggets in the oven at 3:30 am and smoking out my entire house because I removed the batteries from the smoke detector the last time this happened.
On my particularly energizing weeks, you may also find me engaged in spirited, rambling sermons to my dog on how the corporate consolidation of media outlets have eroded our civil liberties without anyone noticing. Fox News, you make me sick.
Bachelorhood is an Untenable Living
I hate to say it but I don’t think I have a choice:
Without women, a man devolves into, at best, incivility and, at worst, complete felony chaos.
There’s a study whose findings have been spread around the internet indicating that married men are expected to live seven years longer than their single counterparts. Whether this is true or not is unimportant. What’s important is that I believe it. Without argument and completely.
Yet, even if my coronary-obliterating diet, inconsistent alcoholism and botched home and car repairs have shaved a decade from my life, I don’t regret a single moment. In fact, I’m struggling with letting this lifestyle go.
I’ve spent the last few days cleaning – an activity I’ve reserved for special occasions, like wearing a mink coat to Arby’s – in hopes of salvaging some semblance of a damage deposit and as I surveyed the savagery of my bachelorhood I felt a flash of sadness that, barring a divorce and brush with alcoholism, I’m leaving this part of my life behind.
The Devil on my Shoulder is Wearing a Bathing Ape Hoodie and Won’t Stop Talking About the Philadelphia Eagles
The path to maturity is lined with the corpses of your former selves. To move forward, we must shed the person we are now. I want to say we’re like snakes shedding their skin but such a trite observation wouldn’t pass muster on a high school essay. Besides, I’ve seen snakes shed and that transition is a lot smoother than growing up.
Personally, my old selves have a hard time letting go and they aren’t shy about playing dirty. Let me tell you, Immature Daniel is not going down without a fight and this fucker hits like a mule.
The devil on my shoulder isn’t a devil at all, it’s the sublimated part of my psyche (dressed in a red unitard with a pitchfork I suppose) that wants to spin kick a cop while his back is turned and ride his police horse into the deep end of the Leisure Centre pool. And he’s not shutting up.
When Melissa and I first heard we were having a baby, my devil started gently suggesting I throw together a knapsack of my essentials, change my name to something French and slightly aggressive (Anvil LaFleur has a nice ring to it) and hop a rail car to Ottawa. Now that I’ve given my landlord notice and we’re only five months away from our child’s birth, my old self has become desperate and pulled the pin out of a grenade with his teeth and demanded I tear up my vacancy notice, crack open some off brand tequila, call up an escort from Craigslist and escape without paying her before someone gets hurt.
Someone tell this crazy fool that he can fight as hard as he wants. I’m not going back. I’m going to miss him and when I’m shopping for baby clothes, I’ll think of him, and sneak an infant-sized Michael Vick jersey into the cart, tip my cap and never look back.
*** Just for the record. My vow of brevity lasted as long as it took you to read this post. ***