I’ll just quit.

Sell the car.  Sell the books.  Sell the guitars.

Yeah, that’s it.

I’ll just quit.

Quit the bills.  Quit the job.  Resign with a note that says, “I don’t know what I want, but I know this ain’t it.”

I’ll just quit.

I’ll be the best quitter there ever was.  And when they ask why, I’ll say, “Just cuz.”

I’ll just quit.

And I’ll be the best quitter to quit anything, and I’ll quit everything.

And when I get bored of quitting, and this contradiction is exposed, and this revelation becomes irrevocable, I’ll get a new job.

I’ll cook.  I’ll do time.  I’ll get occupied.

I’ll give my time in a place that’s not mine and in return receive a direct deposit of cash that no longer smells holy of ancient grease.

I’ll drive to Walmart and trigger the automatic doors and step into the fluorescent chambers of Braunschweiger, deli fried chicken, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I’ll tell a friend, and he’ll say, “Well, let me know if you need help arranging the funeral.”

And I’ll say, “No funeral, just a banquet of Braunschweiger.”

And he’ll say, “Siiiick.”

And I’ll commit to committing suicide by slow, arterial narrowing.

And I’ll quit that, too.

And I’ll smear Hot Cheeto dust on the headrest of the passenger seat that sits empty and by accident cast a spell that ripples through stars and time.  And those stars and time will stop.  And a secret compartment will open upon the Chevy dashboard.  And up will pop a button the color of Lake Superior.  And that button will say “REWIND.”

And I’ll say, “Oh, HELL yeah.”

And as I’m about to press my red, dusty finger into the midsection of this cosmic reverse button, I’ll remember.

I’m the best quitter that ever quit anything, and I quit everything.

So I quit.

And the sun comes up, and I’m nuzzled awake by the Queen of Quitting, and she bestows upon my head a golden crown and dubs me the King of Quitters, and in the courtyard of my Quit Kingdom the people protest my lackadaisical rule.

But I’m content.

I’m the best quitter that ever quit anything, and I quit everything, remember?

But that’s the thing about quitting everything.  Eventually, there’s nothing left to quit.

So I quit quitting.

And I open my eyes, and beneath the door leaks light, and in the dark I know it’s time to get occupied.

I’m no quitter.

Not anymore.


About the Author

Ed Komenda is a writer and journalist.  His writing has appeared in Retirement Plan Zine and Schuylkill Vallccey Journal. He lives in Seattle. 


Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash