Chapter 31: The Days That Never End

That day was over and long past—according to the calendar. But The Worst Day Of His Life wasn’t over for him. It was never over. It had never been over. It would never be over.

The Greatest Publisher In The Universe’s brother, The Greatest Movie Producer In The Universe, had commissioned a script based on it. He’d made the movie and it played endlessly in the Infinite Cineplex In His Head, where it played on an infinite number of screens.

And that wasn’t the only thing showing at the Infinite Cineplex. There was also the second worst day of his life. That would be the time that he erased all his work and all his backups just before he had to go on a family trip. It was the small company he’d started. It always was on the ragged edge or survival, and wiping out a couple of weeks’ of his work was no small matter. This wasn’t leave-the-kids-on-the-mountain stupid where real people could have been killed. Instead it was was desroy-something-that-people-depended-on-you-for stupid. It was a mistake. It was seriously stupid. It hurt to make mistakes, especially big mistakes. It hurt to be stupid, especially seriously stupid.

He’d screwed up. The kids had showed up, but the backups didn’t reappear. If he hadn’t been going on a trip he would have worked double shifts for a as long as it took and made up the damage. But he had other obligations. He had to leave. The damage was beyond repair. He had to live with the pain of his stupidity. So he made the only decision that seemed reasonable at that time. He decided to kill himself.

Of course he couldn’t kill himself right away. That would have been irresponsible. He may have been a completely, worthless, brainless, incompetent piece of shit, but he was not an irresponsible, worthless, brainless, incompetent piece of shit. He would carry out his responsibilities, which included providing for his company and his family. Then, when his youngest daughter started college, he’d be free to kill himself. Responsibly.

So he decided. He decided to live with the pain of his stupidity for nine more years. He decided that he could do it. He had to do it. And he did do it, until several years later he realized how much he’d wanted to die then, how little he wanted to die now, and how stupid all his decisions had been. He hoped he would be able to undo his decision to die. It took a few years before he believed he might have.

He could feel the panic starting, as it had so many times before as he remembered this part of his life. But now he knew what to do: go back to his imaginary safe place.

He imagined he was there, and he was there. It was easier to get there than it had been before because he’d been practicing. Writing a metanovel filled with imaginary things was practice. It made it easier to imagine one more imaginary thing. He knew that there would be times when getting to his safe place would be harder—if he didn’t practice when getting there was easy. So he stopped typing, and spent a little time practicing.

Later he found a way to remind himself to practice, every day, many times a day.

And the more he practiced, the easier it got.