Bob

There’s a man named Bob. Bob is a monster. He cares about nothing but himself. And Bob’s only goal in life is to kill you.

Bob has a gut that would hang over his belt if he didn’t try to cover it up with his apron. His apron is bloody and full of grease. Half the time Bob wipes his hands on his apron. The other times he just sucks the oil off his fingers.

He never brushes his teeth and his breath has the smell of onions that have been laying in a puddle of rain water. But that doesn’t stop Bob from smiling. Bob is always smiling since most of the time Bob is getting away with killing you.

He won’t kill you in the traditional sense. He can’t cut you or make you bleed. He can’t as much as touch a hair on your body yet he still kills you. Little by little. Day by day.

You see, even though Bob doesn’t kill you with the butcher’s blade dripping with pig’s blood he holds, he does kill you in other ways.

He kills your hopes and your dreams. He kills your happiness.

We all have a Bob. My Bob has been killing me these past few weeks, months even. I haven’t been writing. I want to write. When I sit down to write, I feel great. When I write, that’s when I feel  alive and filled with purpose. When I write, I know that I am getting closer and closer to my dream of being an independently wealthy writer. The action itself becomes bliss, not the goal. When I write, I feel as if I have just scored the game winning touchdown, that I have made the mountain top, and that I am at the end of the rainbow.

Yet here i am. Most days not writing. Why? Because Bob doesn’t want me to.

Bob wants me to look at social media all day. He’d rather I was on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

Anything besides writing.

Anything besides trying to date.

Anything besides working out.

Anything besides praying or meditating.

Anything besides cleaning.

Anything besides saving money. Heck, Bob hates it so much when I save because he has other ideas what to do with my money. The newest toy or gadget. Many girls I know have Bobs who make them spend their money on shoes, purses, and boobs they don’t have. We don’t really want those things. You think you want that PS4, you think you want that cute dress, but you don’t. Not the real you, anyway. Bob is the one that wants all that shit because Bob himself is shit.

What you want is to be happy. Bob makes you think that all that shit on Amazon is what’ll make you happy but no matter how many times you fill and empty that virtual cart, you end up just like that virtual cart. Empty and nonexistent.

Where does Bob come from? I dunno, and our job isn’t to find out where he came from or why he’s here. Our job is plain and simple. Get rid of him. But there in lies the rub. Wait. Did you hear that? That was Bob, giggling. He likes words like that. Rub. But where were we…

Ah! Yes. Getting rid of Bob. But before we do that let me pause and say Bravo, Bob! You almost got me there. You almost got me to stop writing. But, alas, I am still writing. I am not listening to you, Bob. You want me to stop, to look at Netflix or YouTube videos, but it’s not gonna happen. It ain’t gonna happen. Because I just demonstrated how to get rid of you to everyone who’s reading this.

You see folks, Bob is never gonna go away. He’s always gonna be there. Has been there since the beginning of time and will be there until the end of it. And you can’t kill him. Oh, sure, you can overcome him here and there, just like I am now, but sooner or later, he’ll be back. No, the only way to get by Bob is to touch the ghosts as they say. We run and hide from the ghosts but once we reach out to touch them, that’s when we learn that they ain’t real. It’s only when we think that they are, they are.

So think about your Bob. What does he have you do? Is it social media like me or is it something else? Maybe shopping or drinking. Relationship drama or work. Whatever your Bob is, tell him to go fuck himself. In as nice a way as possible, of course.

And I’m not kidding! Getting mad at him doesn’t do anything but make him stronger. Trying to talk sense to him works…at times. But he’s a stubborn fuck who’s stuck in his ways. You give him a second chance and he’ll break your heart, time and again.

So don’t love your Bob and don’t hate him either. Be indifferent to him. See him for what he is, a ghost that isn’t even there.

But I do want you to get mad at your Bob for what he’s doing to your life. How he’s killing you and taking you away from your dreams. That business you want to own, that hot guy or gal you want to meet? They’re all out there. Bob is just telling you not to go after them.

But who are you living for? You, or Bob? Why in the fuckin’ fuck are you spending most of your life listening to that fat fuck? What has he ever done for you? That’s right, nothing. Oh, he says he’s doing it for you because he cares about you but he gives two shits about you.

As soon as you stop reading this you might actually get the nerve to finally order that paint set. You might even open it and start drawing when it comes in the mail in a few days. But then Bob will be right there, with teeth the size of your phone. You’re not any good at drawing, he’ll say. Look at that? You’re never gonna have time to learn how to draw a face. I mean, look at what you just drew! It’s horrible! Plus, how old are you? You’re gonna be forty here before you know it and you have children and a real job to contend with. You’re not gonna become Picasso at your age! Get real! Here, let’s watch some Netflix. Oh! I know what’ll make you feel better! You know how buying this paint set made you feel better but you failed? Well what if you buy something that makes you feel good! Something that won’t remind you that you’re dreams are too far away! Can I interest you in a video game, or perhaps a bigger TV…

And so on and so on. So my final words to you are, fuck Bob. Stop living your life for him and start living your life for you. It’s scary, but that’s what makes it fun.

Bob’s never given you shit. So stop giving him your life. Take it back and return that sly grin to that fat, greasy sonofabitch.

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