HUMOR
2022 Projects I Failed
My Year in Bread Crumbles
Finally, we got rid of the event of the year:
the New Year.
Now that we’re past that, the f***ucking latest new year has become the current one, the nobodycaresaboutanymore one, the old, decrepit 2023 already. As you may sense from my quite subtle and lyrical words, I hate festivities among plenty of other things. But let’s stick to the point: my list of miserable failures.
First of all, did you know I published a book in 2022? Of course you don’t, otherwise I would have sold millions of copies, Amazon would have crashed a zillion times and the Amazon forest (named after the renowned Jeff Bezos company) would be treeless by now. Paperback copies of SHANDY (that’s my book folks!) would roll down the stairs of every household like, I don’t know, crawling toddlers? (oh shut up Matt, you’re horrible!), and the entirety of pub coasters of the world would be replaced with copies of SHANDY, and t-shirts would be printed with the cover of SHANDY, and your Sunday SHANDY aperitif would be sponsored by SHANDY.
SHANDY.
What did I just write? Oh yeah, BUY SHANDY, the best collection of humorous short stories and rants for cool people like you, now available in every bookstore (nope, it’s only on Amazon). If only you’d known… But you didn’t, and I didn’t sell a single copy. Not any. Zero. Nil. Nada. Total thorough failure. I thought Jeffy Jeff Bezos would at least send me a condolence letter, a cheer-up-mate text, a freaking something to levitate my spirit, tickle me up so that I would publish another completely unnoticed (I’m being very generous with myself) piece of literature (uh?). Did I receive such a thing? No.
Apparently, you don’t matter when you fail, I mean, you especially don’t matter when you fail. Money goes where the money is or something like that. So, SHANDY won the Zero Sales Award of 2022, a goal unachieved even by illiterates signing their checks with huge Xs, people who can’t compose a single line whatsoever cause they don’t know how to write or read. Well, even they outsold me. Anyhow, “at least you increased your following as a musician”, I hear you say. And I thank you for your very attentive eye, your dedication towards me and my art. I reckon you noticed my MattYouthUk Instagram post where I screenshotted the mind-BOOM-blowing number of
Matt Youth (me) Spotify monthly listeners: 121
I know. Such an absurd amount of fans brings plenty of responsibilities, fame and yes, I must admit I got a bit showing off those days. I was probably unbearable-er than usual. So what? F*** Y**! (That wasn’t me telling you where to go, it was just a random example to explain my recent attitude). I was kinda enjoying my godlike status but then again, it lasted less than a cat crossing the highway if you know what I mean. As soon as I hit the top of the roof, bloody Spinnup decided to quit (after what, 15 fucking years of uninterrupted services?) and with this stellar move, my herd of fans disappeared like soapy bubbles on a stormy day. I had to remove and reupload my music with another distributor, and the options were many, so many and so alike that I thought, whatever, this won’t affect my successful career. But, of course, I picked the wrong horse, a fucking handicapped, crippled horse that from now on we will call Pitto.
Let’s be honest, Pitto sucks like no other platform ever created. I chose Pitto because it looked okay-ish. Cause it was cheap. Now I hate Pitto. Cause it’s cheap and it looks… darn, I’m gonna leave Pitto. Soon. I swear. Thanks to bloody Ditto (what??) pardon my french, Pitto, the hype went down the drain in a snap and I got back to being a no-one, a misfit, an unlistened artist with 12 monthly listeners. By the way, I’d like to thank my mother, my sister, the girlfriend and my nine fake Spotify profiles for the support. Some might say the real problem wasn’t the distributor, but rather my music. Is it really that bad? Only God knows, but since I’m not a believer and, apparently, the big man doesn’t seem to care about me, we shall leave him out of this for now. Let’s think about positive shit like:
AM Florence
AM Florence is my brand, my creation, my source of income that pays for all my failures, the bills, the rent, the flights to nowhere, the trips that I don’t take anymore and the booze that I stopped drinking ten-plus years ago. AM Florence is my only satisfaction, orders come in and I slave myself into fulfilling them trying to make all customers happy. So far so good but don’t tell a soul, we don’t wanna jinx this one, do we? Alright, so I suspect you now think I am a rich bitch with a successful job that can’t help but whine all the time like a fucking baby. Close enough, you almost won a special prize!
The truth is I live in London. Getting my point now, uh? London is like a Ferrari-engined juicer, the ultimate meat grinder, a black hole that vacuums your money, energy and life out of you. London is so jealous and merciless that the moment you turn the other way and pause working for an instant, a fistful of thousands of pounds disappear from your bank account.
Have I been robbed?, I asked the Barclays guy.
No sir. You just got distracted, it happens all the time.
I did what?
Frrrrushhh, another 2 grand puffed away, sir.
Enough with the sir, where’s ma money?
Your what?
The cash. My stash!
You’re losing it!
WHAAAAAAAAT???
As I said, you’re losing it.
STOP IT!!
Sir, you can’t stop London.
Do what?
London.
London…
The more I work, the less I have. 2022 was superb, I twiced my orders but for some witchcraft I don’t know and certainly don’t understand, this city drained my savings anyway and my bank account is losing one precious digit after another. Slowly, inexorably and emotionless, the numbers go down cause fuck knows, is it the war? This science-fiction increase in living costs? Or am I just the worst accountant/money-saver in the world? London…
But 2022 wasn’t all about money and career. I also had to face my intermittent health.
2022 decided I couldn’t smoke anymore. Just my luck.
My stomach is my nemesis, I can’t find a better word for it. I hate my stomach and my stomach hates me. Totally. Unconditionally. Whatever I do that doesn’t please the bastard, instantly turns my life into the worst nightmare you can imagine. The motherfucker goes in flames and it burns my soul and body leaving me on my knees for days with pounding headaches, nausea, and loss of appetite for living. Apparently, sometimes enough is enough and 2022 was my enough time. I had to defeat the monster.
So I stopped eating meat (totally doable), reduced my sugar intake (whatever) and increased veggies, fruit, and fibres (gosh). I was swallowing vitamins and probiotics like an addict. I was living like a monk, I basically ceased existing and yet again once a month I still collapse, I die, I rot in bed for 2–3 days which might sound pretty harsh for you while in fact, it’s actually a golden situation if you consider my life before 2022: sick for 48 hours every single week with monthly peaks of 5–6 moons in a row of complete annihilation of me. The only bright side of this story is that I don’t drink so I fucking didn’t have to cut on the booze. Quitting smoking instead wasn’t exactly easy.
2022 dismantled my idea of myself for good.
Now, you have to understand that, in my mind, I am a writer (funny uh?). One living in New York, hitting on the keys of a typing machine that runs on coffee and cigarettes, coffee and cigarettes, coffee and… and I fucking had to eliminate the coffee and the bloody cigarettes. So what the hell am I anymore? I asked myself. What’s the point in existing at all without my identity? I hate healthy, wealthy, relaxed, hippy, you name it. I love damned musicians, poets, and other kinds of fools. You take away from me my li’l instruments for playing rockstar and I am fucked forever. No more Matt. No more Youth.
It took me a month or so just to redefine my basics, the foundations of myself as a human derelict. Eventually, I deceived the brain that decaf is good (it’s not), the fags stink (they actually do) and most of all, I embraced the concept that lying debilitated in bed for days every week wasn’t exactly ideal for all the things I wanted to do. God bless Bukowski and his persistence against death but apparently, my body wasn’t made for using any kind of drug, not even black pepper (ask my stomach). Christ, I’m pathetic. Alive and pathetic.
What else did go wrong? Oh, yeah,
I screwed my long-term relationship.
Cause life is complicated, shit happens and when shit starts piling up you never know how deep you can fall down in disgrace. So we parted ways and I moved out. Some call it divorce, others call it a breakup, especially since I never married. But what is marriage these days? If you last ten years with a person, I call it better than married. I strongly believe that I (and the poor girl) should be knighted for my persistence. I think I should get a medal, a trophy, or some shit to celebrate the stubbornness of me and her. But, hey, I also managed to boom that up eventually.
Was it a good move? A disastrous move? Let’s hear from the public. You can text us at 007 123456 789 ten times a day telling us what you think. Call now!
The polls show that if my move was a bad move, I lost. Clearly. But there’s more. In the unpredictable case that for once in my life I did a good move, I still am subject to failing this one anyway. Why?
Cause I’m not even good enough at staying divorced!
I found a new home. I moved into the new home. I settled in and after a week, not even seven bloody days of singletude I got back in touch with her. I fell for her again like a wuss. I… but let’s talk about the house.
It was marvellous: bed, desk and a window, a New York factory style window that leaked humidity, wind and rain into the room but that didn’t matter, cause you need a window when you are a poet, a writer, a dreamer. Windows like my window are magical. It brought poetry back into my nights, it made me dream of her, led me back to the stars. I couldn’t ask for more. This perfect accommodation hosted 14 people under the same roof. Some call it crowded, my wallet called it cosy. No matter what, I got used to the house quickly. I almost loved it in 15 days and guess what? I got kicked out. In a month. Right after my mental settling! The landlord decided to renovate the bloody shack after what, a lifetime of negligence? Just my luck again. So I found another home. Moved to the new home and lost the deposit, rent and sanity because it turned out I fucked off too quickly, without giving any notice. I cried. And I moved to the new home which was better but with major issues I can’t tell you about. Oh, and all that happened right before December 24th.
Merry fucking Christmas Matt.
Alright, enough. That’s it.
2022: fuck you.
P.S.: did you know I also opened a t-shirt and other Matt Youth merch Etsy shop? Silly question. Silly me to ask, yet I had my reasons. You might not believe me but I swear I sold three t-shirts on the very first day! Okay, the so-called client was a friend of mine, famous street artist Steve McCracken who bought the bunch at once. Nevertheless, it counts innit? Money is money. A t-shirt sold is a t-shirt money in the bank (right, I shall stop misquoting inexistent sayings). Problem with that unique sale was that I didn’t do the math properly when setting the price of my tees. Basically, if you deduct the Esty fee, the t-shirt maker fee, the tax on the tax plus the fee of the fee, I ended up with minus 30p, meaning I had to pay 10p for each one of my sales. Optimus. At that point, I thought, shoot,
I’m gonna win the Worst Salesman Award!
but, sadly, I didn’t get that one either. I wanted to quit everything. Quit life. Well, maybe not that one since, at the end of the day, I’ve been dealing with my misery for ages, I’m a professional loser by now, the Best. I’m an experienced underdog, I never won a worthy scratchcard, never won a free ride at any fun (you wish) fair. I’m the king of the outcasts. The Queen of Queers despite being heterosexual (don’t ask). I might fail and not succeed but I don’t cry (liar) and I don’t lie (liar) cuz I’m invincible (definitely not) and I’m cooler than any cucumber (not even this one). In one word:
I’m Youth. Matt Youth.
(it’s not one word. Sorry, you lose again.)
