When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one pathetic, irreversibly damaged “man” on the miserable cusp of his 30s, to dissolve the dream that consumed him throughout his absurdly inadequate, unprofitable, contemptible 20s, to render his artistic pursuits a crushing failure in their totality, and to return home again to his humble, familiar station living with his parents, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that he should declare the causes which impel him to take indefinite adult refuge in this simulated womb.
We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are not created equal, because I have shown a profoundly unequal ability to fend for myself, to acquire and maintain anything approaching an adult relationship, or to demonstrate the faintest of reasons for my friends and family to continue wasting their time, energy, and dwindling hopes on me as I approach a fresh decade of worthlessness.
I solemnly publish and declare that I, Harry Aspen, and by definition of my defective nature ought to be indentured and wholly dependent on the State. And by State, I mean my parents, who by previously enabling my entitled, free-loading existence preceding my
artistic quest aborted effort to be a screenwriter in Los Angeles, are hereby bound to bail out their grown-ass son, supporting him with shelter, nourishment, and minimal castigation as he transitions from Aspiring Artist to Failed Artist with zero career prospects and infinitesimal hope of, or desire to, the procurement of said prospects. That this pathetic wastrel of an elder son is Absolved from all Allegiance to societal expectations, and all connection between them and adult responsibility is and ought to be totally, albeit temporarily (though probably indefinitely) dissolved.
As a woefully dependent man-child of overburdened parents who ought to have abandoned me years ago, lest they endure, front-and-center, their nullification of any shred of remaining faith in me, and the annihilation of their former pride of parentage. I, Harry Aspen, endowed by me Creator, hereby impart the following Declarations of my Dependence.
I shall only attempt to sleep when I find it physically impossible to keep my eyes open, betraying every prior signal my body sends me, urging me to shut down for the evening, because I dread the horrors that constantly await me in my dark Dreamscape, and I have a secret, perpetual fear of dying in my sleep, and want to squeeze every ounce of mediocrity that I can out of my final day. Furthermore, my vampiric sleep cycle is persistently reinforced by my frequent unemployment, and my depressing view of each new day as an extension of my overwhelming lack of achievement.
The vast majority of my romantic endeavors will be initiated from, wholly conducted through and probably contained within, the safe, convenient refuge of the internet and its online dating subsidiaries, so that I may better mask my poverty, floundering confidence, and emotional bankruptcy.
When I masturbate nightly in my childhood bed, I vow to properly contain the disposal of at least 91% of my evacuated sperm in the trash can, via tissue intermediaries, before falling asleep with tissue scraps stuck to the head or neck of my mildly quenched cock. Additionally, I pledge to make a concerted effort to conserve the Kleenex that I obviously don’t pay for, and whose rapid depletion could not be convincingly accounted for, not even by the vengeful return of my allergies. I will reduce my spunk grave footprint on the household economy, and the environment at large.
I shall ask for, and receive, a variety of sugary cereals, constantly in flux between such nutritionally-vacant trash as Cap’n Crunch, Pebbles (both Fruity and Cocoa), Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Fruit Loops, and Count Chocula. I have a confounding inability to prepare eggs that aren’t shredded and soupy, and therefore must be satiated by the saccharine breakfast substitutes advertised during the whimsical cartoons of my promising youth.
If I leave the house for sporadic socialization, I will need a ride to and from the metro bus park-and-ride, so you might as well lend me the car, Mom and/or Dad. I won’t be able to pitch in to the repairs fund when I somehow break your 6-CD changer, but I will contribute $10 worth of gas, every fourth time I borrow one of your cars. Naturally, you will be responsible for all toll road money.
Since I am not paying for my food, I acknowledge that I shall be awarded no input on the location and contents of my meals, but will nevertheless make suggestions that are surely detrimental to the dietary regiments my parents’ maintained prior to my return. Conversely, I hereby accept their refusal to have me prepare for them the only meal I have a remote competence in cooking. I regard this as sufficient evidence of their lack of faith in my ability to do anything anymore, and their implicit submission to my utter dependence on them.
Although I have a paltry $217 to my name, and $8,000 of credit card debt, I will continue to gamble. A man needs hobbies, and a possible, though extremely unlikely, revenue source, as I am not going to suddenly develop a willingness to join the service industry. Come on now.
Since my resume is unsubstantial, even with its tremendously high level of fabrication, I shall mostly reach for the low-hanging fruit of the job market. My self esteem will plummet to new depths, now that I am nearly entirely stripped of my delusion of a triumphant artistic career. I am apparently not the voice of my generation, and rather than coping with this crushing, though necessary and always-apparent realization by re-dedicating myself to a sensible, potentially profitable career path, or pursuing graduate school as a means to this practical end, I will just continue to take half-assed shots in the dark at low level government jobs, hoping to suckle from the perpetually-lactating tit of the public sector, and read job descriptions that I am not remotely qualified for, nor capable of performing, just to get a vicarious taste of how real adults live.
I vow to watch copious amounts of television when my Dad goes to bed and I am finally granted sovereignty over the remote control.
I will continue to recklessly and habitually chat up girls with mostly adult lives and adult romantic expectations, whom I will probably never follow through with, while eating fruit snacks in my customary uniform of mesh shorts and my high school Class of 2000 graduation T-shirt that is still too big for me.
As a categorically Dependent entity, I have no Power to levy war, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and do all other Acts and things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Parental Providence, I pledge my sacred Honor to remain faithfully Dependent, until my avalanche of self-loathing and complete blind spot to the remote possibility of success in the Real World both evaporate, and I finally get my shit together, which may be never.