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Happy birthday to me

In San Francisco in the mid-1990s, I wrote a zine called "Pathetic Life: Diary of a Fat Slob." Recently I found my copies of it in a mildewed box in the basement, so one entry at a time I'm going to re-type the text off smelly paper and post it to the internet. Recycling is good for the earth, right?

The opinions stated here were my opinions long ago, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Birthdays are for children, and people happy to hear from Willard Scott, but birthdays mean less than squat to me. I'm 36 today. Hold the cake and candles, it's just another day.

Called my mother, something I rarely do. Just wanted to thank her for birthing me and raising me, and especially for not tossing my ass into the oven when I so often, so richly deserved to be baked.

My only other birthday tradition is to think back on another year's mistakes, squandered time, lost opportunities and former friends. Morbidly obese, I don't need an actuarial table to determine that my life is more than halfway to its end — half wasted and well into wasting the second half. But I'm having a good time here on earth, and if that's not the point of it all I don't know what is.

Enjoying it, babe. Therein lies the meaning of life. So now seems as good a time as any to put together a zine, and if it's boring rubbish for the reader, at least the writer was entertained. So the author proudly presents his pathetic life, for your amusement, or lack thereof.

By way of introduction, my name is Doug Holland, and I'm a fat balding old fart with chronic bad breath, precious few friends, barely the funds to hover a week from homelessness, a lot of disgusting habits, a wardrobe that's utterly unstylish, a routine that's very very routine, and a job that's menial and not worth mentioning. So now you know, I'm someone you're glad you never met, writing a diary you'll probably wish you weren't reading.

Yes, the pleasure is all mine.

If your standards are so low you're willing to endure this kind of crap, be assured I've got lots more crap just like it. I've got crap coming out the wazoo, and you have been warned.

From Pathetic Life #1
Wednesday, June 1, 1994

Pathetic Life

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