Why I Write This (And Why You Must Read It)

Welcome, friends, to the WTF: What The Fiasco blog. If you’ve made it this far, congratulations! You’ve successfully navigated my impulsive design choices and my generally abrasive tone—two key symptoms of the A.D.D. brain that runs this operation.

The, blog is a collection of short, slightly fictionalized stories about my life as a 60+-year-old man who, thanks to my perpetually scattered brain, has found myself sharing a decaying Victorian house with 20 other emotionally stunted gentlemen. Yes, the stories are based on real life events, but the names, places, and specific levels of squalor have been strategically altered. Why? Because after decades of impulsively venting, I’ve finally learned to write it all down and edit it before shooting my mouth off and getting myself permanently evicted. 

You're seeing my life as it is now. The prequel—the long, twisted road that led me from a seemingly normal life to a life where I’m sharing a bathroom with a man who thinks gloves are optional in a gas zone—is a story for another time.

Do you want the prequel? Do you want the full, tragicomic history of this Fiasco? I’ll only write it if I see there’s genuine interest. So here’s the deal, and this is important:

• Read the posts. All of them.

• Leave comments. Tell me what you think. Tell me who your favorite weirdo is.

• Pass it on. Share this blog with anyone who has ever owned a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

If you don't do this, I will immediately assume one of two things: You are either too distracted by your own A.D.D. (in which case, I empathize), or you are actively avoiding dealing with me, just like everyone else in my life.

And honestly, both of those outcomes are just another chapter in the Fiasco.

Thanks for reading!

WHAT THE FIASCO!

🛒 The Day My Impulse Button Fired: Fired, Fired, and Fired

 

For most of my life, I toiled in the majestic arena of retail. Before I landed here in the WTF: What The Fiasco headquarters following the end of my 30-year marriage, I was a glamorous sales merchandiser for a major food manufacturer. It wasn't a bad gig: I got to travel to over 50 different stores, each one a unique ecosystem of baffling management and baffling customers. Fifty stores, fifty bosses—because every single store manager expected me to dedicate my life to their two hours a week of service, instantly ignoring the 49 other stores I serviced and the one actual boss I answered to. Needless to say, the relationship between vendor and manager was less a partnership and more a simmering, mutual hatred.

I’d clocked decades of wear and tear, accumulating a delightful collection of back and knee pains. But thanks to my trusty A.D.D., if a problem isn't loudly screaming in my face, it can wait indefinitely!  So, I worked through the pain, prioritizing tasks like making sure the chips were stacked just right, and ignoring the structural decay in my joints.

The Backroom Brawl

My actual boss was no help; he lived by the ancient, insane creed that the customer is always right, even when they are demonstrably, undeniably wrong. This setup was a constant trigger for my impulsive, short-tempered personality.

The final, glorious straw snapped one day as I was trying to haul merchandise through a particularly messy backroom. The scene was less a functional stock area and more a crowded nightclub filled with department managers and associates doing absolutely nothing but chatting. My frustration boiled over. Words were exchanged (loudly, impulsively, regretfully). Before I could even finish my outburst, the store manager—a man whose patience was clearly rated lower than the structural integrity of this Victorian house—threw me out.

The Impulsive Abyss

Normally, my boss would simply transfer me to a different store. But my Attention Deficit Disorder decided to check out. Having dealt with this exact flavor of petty annoyance for the thousandth time, I just snapped. I walked out and quit my job. Without thinking! The fact that I was already on A.D.D. and anti-depression meds, and I might have missed my morning dose, probably amplified the explosion. This wasn't just impulsive; this was the final, nuclear-grade straw.

At the time, I foolishly thought, Eh, I have enough cash until the next gig. I didn't care about unemployment. What I absolutely failed to consider were my benefits, specifically my precious Medical Insurance.

What I didn't also realize until it was too late was I was 60 years old, and the retail world was no longer interested in hiring me. So, here I am, self-employed as an independent personal shopper (Instacart, Shipt, the works)—a true digital-age Fiasco.

WTF: The Health Crisis

Now, the real terror begins. I'm too young for Medicare, but old enough that I’m one sneeze away from a catastrophic medical bill. Do I have to take early Social Security just to cover a decent health plan? Do I qualify for the dreaded Medicaid bureaucracy? What the Fiasco!

Remember me saying, "I have had my share of back and knee pains... With my A.D.D., if it's not in my face important it can wait."

WELL, IT'S IN MY FACE NOW!

It's in my neck, my knees, my back, and my hips! I didn't just go over the hill at age 60; I fell off the cliff that was hiding over that hill, without a net or medical insurance! At 63, my body is officially staging a coup.

WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO!

Next week, we'll dive into the ailments going around this house and my misadventures in trying to get and afford health insurance before time runs out—the ultimate Fiasco.

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