My Hard Life: How I Learned to Deal with Bosses, Wives, My Children, Teachers, Pets, Insurance Companies, and My Parent's Non-Stop Bullshit and Ball-Busting

By A.J. Aberfeldy

As a teenager with a below average penis size and overbearing parents who made him brush his teeth before bed every night, Dr. Aberfeldy was convinced that getting rich and famous by writing one of those memoirs where people complain about everything was the only escape from his dysfunctional childhood. But upward mobility required crafting the perfect resilience narrative. He had to prove to himself and the rest of the world that he was an “overcomer,” made stronger by all the bullshit he had endured at the hands of family, friends, co-workers, girlfriends, wives, ex-wives, bosses, insurance companies, banks, and even his own children.

The truth was more complicated. Dr. Aberfeldy's mom was a Catholic school teacher who was constantly breaking his balls about getting high too much and not doing his homework, not unlike his mean, calloused Vietnam veteran father who forced him to move out their house when he was just a young, scared, 26-years-old little boy. Dr. Aberfeldy's own past was filled with secrets: imaginary friends named Peeny and Joey, a marijuana stash in his sock drawer he hid from his parents his whole life, phone calls from strange numbers, dozens of lost car keys and wallets he never found, and sometimes even peeing in the kitchen sink when he was too lazy to go to the bathroom, all of which led to the unbecoming desperation of a 43-year-old man being forced to fend for himself. And though Dr. Aberfeldy would go on to graduate from college and become a high school guidance counselor, he found that sweet-ass summer vacations and snow days didn’t necessarily mean safety from the meritocracy.

Both a chronicle of the American Dream and an indictment of it, this searing debut exposes the price of trading a troubled past for the promise of a bright future. Told with a ribbon of dark humor, My Hard Life challenges our ideas of what it means to overcome—and find contentment on your own terms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.J. Aberfeldy
• Release date: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005579180

Book preview

Foreword

Dr. A.J. Aberfeldy always hated being an adult. He resented the idea of being so caught up in grown-up stuff like forgetting to pay his bills, finding socks that matched, and lying about why he was late for work that he lost sight of everything that ever made him happy as a child. He gave up on popping wheelies. He stopped ding-dong ditching, and he didn't even think spitballs or really loud farts were as funny as they used to be. He hadn't drawn a dick on something in years, and he couldn't even remember the last time he threw a party at his parent's house when they weren't home, or when he had sex with a sixteen-year-old girl in the back seat of his mom's car. By his 40th birthday, he was just a shell of that spry boy who left the loudest farts in the 5th grade.

Shortly after he graduated college, he needed to find a fucking job and move the hell out so he could start paying his own goddamn bills already. At least that's what his parents were always telling him. What his parents didn’t understand was that he was a Psychology major, and Psychology majors don’t do stuff like get good jobs or move out of their parents’ house. With a shitty college major, and not enough charm or good looks to enter the lucrative world of pharmaceutical sales like his mom and dad wanted me to, it looked like I was destined to live with his parents and smoke pot all day forever.

With a little luck and a fuckload of white privilege, his life is finally on the right track. He healed the damaged relationship with his father, even though his father could be a real dick sometimes. He also awakened his inner-child. Now he is the same fun-loving, happy-go-lucky kid who used to masturbate five times a day and played with matches. He has dental insurance, an amicable divorce, and two kids who aren't in therapy yet. He is even back to drawing dicks on people’s stuff at work again. Let’s just say his life turned out exactly as he planned.

The Beginning

Sometimes it takes losing everything to appreciate anything. At least that’s what happened to me. By the time I was thirty-five years old everything good in my life was gone. I lost my home, my kids, my wife, and my job. I lost it all. I was just another homeless vagrant. I was no different from Sylvester Stallone and the other Eleven Famous People You Wouldn’t Believe Were Homeless that I read about on my phone during my daughter’s boring dance recital last month.

When I was homeless, I didn’t know where I would get my next meal, when I would shower again, or even where I could take a decent shit without being arrested or freaking anyone out. It was awful. I would go days without brushing my teeth, and sometimes I’d even go weeks without flossing. I couldn't watch The Walking Dead anymore, and I even missed the final episode of Breaking Bad.

With no access to my favorite television shows, being homeless was the hardest thing I ever had to face in my whole entire life. I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy, not even my fat fuck of a boss who is constantly busting my balls about being late for work all the time

The whole time I was homeless I kept looking for salvation, but all I ever found was the bottom of a Natural Ice can, the worst kind of beer known to man, the kind of beer only drank by poor people and college kids. I was on a crash course towards self-destruction and ruin, and also cheap beer. It was only by the grace of God and the help of a few kind souls that I was able to rise like a Phoenix out of the ashes to discover true happiness and start getting drunk on delicious craft beer again.

My life as a homeless person taught me a lot of valuable lessons. It taught me way more about living my best life, the power of positive thinking, energy gifts, self-love, courage, affirmation, I-statements, or any of that other stupid bullshit in all those self-help books that my mom buys me for Christmas every year. My experience as a homeless person strengthened my faith. It defined my character, and it fostered my resilience. It even taught me how to love myself again. Now I am back to loving myself three or four times a day, just like I did when I was back in middle school.

Well, I guess I got ahead of myself a little bit. Before I go any further, let me tell you everything that happened to me on this extraordinary journey that led me to self-discovery and spiritual enlightenment. I will share with you the entire story of my tragic fall and epic rise, all the way to the catharsis that helped reset my narcissistic mindset so that I can exist on a higher plane of consciousness than the rest of you. First, you need to hear my backstory. I need to tell you about how I came face to face with vile and despicable foes such as bosses, co-workers, wives, children, teachers, pets, parents, family, and friends; and how their constant barrage of bullshit and nagging led me down a path of self-destruction and ruin. This is what we writers like to call a backstory. At least I think it is called backstory. It might actually be an opening or maybe an introduction, but I am pretty sure it’s a backstory.

In any case, you see, all the great timeless pieces of literature have great backstories. Death Wish, Die-Hard, Braveheart, Alien, Predator, and even all those Jason and Freddy movies, they all have great backstories. Let’s examine the backstory of Braveheart for a minute. Braveheart managed to win five Oscars, even though Mel Gibson hates Jews. That was how good it was. In this movie, Mel Gibson paints his face and kills everyone. Not a bad plot for a movie, but not exactly Oscar-worthy either. Now add a backstory where his entire family gets killed by the bad guys. Now we are talking five Oscars.

Schwarzenegger did a similar movie called Commando. In this movie Arnold was just a simple retired commando living in the middle of the desert, when suddenly the bad guys bust in and kidnap his daughter, which obviously forces him to paint his face and kill everyone. There is also a fantastic movie called Robocop, which has a great backstory as well. In this movie, a police officer gets shot and turned into a robot cop who winds up obviously winds up killing everyone as well.

Just to be clear, as much as I love movies about people who paint their faces or get turned into robots and wind up killing everyone, that is not what happened to me. I was simply citing those as examples of good backstories because I have a pretty amazing backstory as well. It’s probably not as good as getting turned into a robot or being a secret commando and killing everyone, but it still is a pretty good one.

You see, I was once an optimistic young man who had a very promising future. I absolutely loved life and I treasured every moment. I would spend every day smiling, laughing, skipping, and whistling. Sometimes I would even jump around and frolic in the autumn leaves, or simply burst into song. But then something happened. I stopped being me. I stopped being that fun-loving, happy-go-lucky kid who masturbated five times a day and played with matches. I didn’t play with my GI Joes or Transformers anymore. I gave up on popping wheelies and vandalizing stuff. Not even spitballs or really loud farts were as hilarious as they used to be. I stopped getting stoned before school, and I couldn’t tell you the last time I threw a party at my parent’s house when they weren’t home, or when I had sex with a sixteen-year-old girl in the back seat of my mom’s car.

Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of everything that ever made me happy as a child. I got too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of everyday grown-up stuff like finding socks that matched, taking showers, getting dressed, looking for my car keys, looking for my wallet, trying to get in my house after I locked myself out, paying overdraft fees, forgetting about dirty dishes, ignoring late notices, not taking the garbage out, spanking the shit out of my kids, complaining about stuff, and coming up with lies about why I was late for work. Being a real grown-up had become such a burden that life had lost its luster. The joy and innocence of my youth were dead.

I’ll be honest. I never knew that being an adult would be such hard work. I always figured that my whole life would just fall into place and I would have been the kind of guy who looked like a male model and wore khaki pants, just like all those Dockers commercials with all those handsome guys wearing khaki pants. I assumed that I would have six- pack abs, a million dollars, and a smoking hot wife who had really huge fake tits, and we would make out all the time in public and do really trendy parenting stuff like pay attention to our kids. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would grow up to become a homeless guy drinking Natty Ice out of a brown paper bag, but there I was. By my 40th birthday, I was nothing more than a shell of that spry and gallant young man who had his whole life in front of him and left the loudest farts in the 5th grade. Here is how it all happened.

My story begins in the spring of 2001 on the campus of the US News 135th best liberal arts college in the entire United States of America. You have probably never heard of it, but I can assure you that it is a very prestigious school. In fact, it is better than 134 other colleges in that specific category included in that particular ranking. This school is so elite that it only accepts 72% of all applicants. Not that I am bragging, but in 1997 I happened to be of those applicants. I know statistics may seem a little trite and boring, and you are probably wondering where I am going with all of this, but those figures are a much-needed element to my story because they provide the necessary empirical data to support my mom’s undying belief that I was indeed her very special boy.

So, on a fateful spring day in 2001, in a quaint little college town nestled in the foothills of Pennsylvania, I was about to graduate college and embark on my journey into manhood and greatness. Now to some skeptics, they might argue that a college degree doesn’t hold as much value as it used to. Sure, I did borrow $65,000 to take a useless major that will eventually not get me a good job from a mediocre college that no one has ever heard of. And sure, I will never be able to pay back those loans and my credit will someday be ruined because of it, but that doesn’t mean that I still didn’t deserve to have a party with cake.

The graduation was a fine and wonderful ceremony. It had a well-known keynote speaker who I am sure said some very profound words. I don’t remember what they were, but I am sure his speech was very good. The ceremony itself was wonderful too. It had pomp and it had a circumstance. It even had a blistering hot sun that was beating down on me for hours upon hours as every single last name got called, even the names of the people who had shitty majors like Philosophy and Psychology.

Ok, let’s cut the shit. Graduations are pure torture. I'd rather have someone put cigarettes out on my eyelids while they sodomized me with a cactus than go to a graduation ceremony. No, even worse, I’d rather go to my 3rd cousin’s gender reveal party. Newsflash Jessica: You're not the first person to have a baby. No one gives a shit about what you’re having.

Anyway, the tassels were turned, and the graduation finally ended. It was somewhere between holding in a fart and looking at my watch because that was what I usually do at this sort of thing. That was when something wonderful and extraordinary happened. Out of nowhere, the whole entire audience stood up and erupted with applause. It was a standing ovation! I couldn’t believe it. I puffed my chest out proudly. Everyone loved me. It was the proudest moment of my life. I was not expecting that sort of praise and adulation. I didn’t realize that people were such big fans of psychology majors. I’d bet Jesus Christ himself never got a standing ovation, and he performed miracles.

I’ll be honest. Based on my major, GPA, drinking, drug use, the assortment of disorderly conducts, my cheating, work ethic, and overall disposition I probably deserved the opposite of standing ovation. I probably deserved a roomful of silent farts.

I had no job and nowhere to live. I was in debt up to my ears, and I was drunk all the time. Still, there I was getting my first standing ovation. One of my dad’s buddies was a degenerate gambler. He lived that way for years, and no one ever gave him a standing ovation, but then again, he didn’t graduate from college either. It was truly the proudest day of my life.

The Real Beginning

Okay, so I lied. I didn't really graduate college on that day. I feel bad about lying, so I am just going to come clean and tell you the truth now. It is not that I am opposed to lying. I actually love lying. Lying is most certainly a wonderful and useful tool, and it does have a tremendous upside when dealing with employers, police, family, wives, ex-wives, children, and filling out various official forms. However, a lie is probably a terrible way to start a memoir.

The truth is that I failed two classes in my senior year, and the asshole dean wouldn't just let me just graduate anyway. He didn't even care how much my mom begged him. It was not my fault though. Had it not been for my advisor who made me switch majors twice, or the asshole professor who gave me an F in Learning and Motivation, or the philosophy professor who caught me cheating in his Moral Conflicts class, or the girl who wouldn’t let me cheat off her in Research Methods, or all my friends and roommates who pressured me into drinking and smoking weed all the time instead of studying, or the Flyers going 7 overtimes forcing me to not study for a Neuropsychology final. And had it not been for the people who sold me weed, or forced me to try acid, ecstasy, mushrooms, and whippets, or the dean of discipline who tried to have me kicked off campus, or all the hot co-eds who were constantly trying to distract me with their long sexy legs and tight young asses, I might have been graduating on that day, and writing a different book right now: a book about how I cured cancer or a get-rich-quick book probably. My point is that this could have very easily happen to anyone. I’d bet not even Stephen Hawking would have graduated in four years if drank as much beer as I did while I was in college.

Without a real college graduation or anything vaguely interesting to put in my epic memoir, I needed to think of a new beginning. I thought about starting with my Catholic school experiences and the years I spent being molested by a priest and how he used to dress up like Cher and make suck his…. I am kidding! I just made that up to see what you would think! Father Ops never dressed up like Cher.

My mom was a Catholic School teacher and I was forced to go to Catholic school, but I was never molested by a priest. They never even tried. It kind of gave me a complex that maybe I wasn’t good looking enough or something. The closest I ever came to being molested by a priest was the time Father Dave caught me drawing dicks on all the desks in study hall. He scheduled a meeting with my mom and the principal because they all thought I was a pervert who had a sick obsession with penises. Although that is an interesting anecdote, it is probably the beginning of a completely different story.

Perhaps I could start with the time that I got accused of flaunting my erection at crazy Sister O’Malley. It is a good story, and it does make people chuckle. Still, that is more along the lines of delightful conversation. It is nothing more than a quirky side note, something I might use as playful banter on a Good Morning America interview, or maybe as an icebreaker at a dinner party. It is not really a good beginning for my epic memoir.

I would have loved to write a memoir about the time I spent in a drug rehab and all the interesting characters I met there, but that idea was already taken by James Frey. Without a crippling drug addiction, an unbelievable kidnapping, a sex scandal, a mental illness or anything remotely interesting enough to say in a memoir, I really don’t have anything to write about. If I was a famous person, it would be easy to write a memoir. Every famous person from Hulk Hogan to Carrie Fisher wrote a memoir. Heck, even Felicia Day wrote one, and I don’t even know who the fuck she is.

Introduction to the Greatest Story Ever Told...About Drugs

I think it is an important part of any redemption memoir to take a moment and reflect on past drug use. Drugs were indeed a very important part of my life. In fact, if it weren't for drugs, I might not be the man who stands before you here today. That is why I always tell my kids, If you’re not going to do your best, then at least do drugs instead, because the next best thing to doing your best is having a good excuse. Besides, everyone loves people who use lots of drugs. That writer, James Frey, told people he was addicted to drugs and his book sold like a gazillion copies. In fact, people were really upset when they found out that he didn’t do as many drugs as he claimed. I think Oprah even cried over it. There is also a show called Intervention, which is about people doing lots of drugs. I am not exactly sure why it is on The Learning Channel because it has absolutely nothing to do with learning, but I guess it’s like the old saying goes, Awesome shit on TV is always way better than learning stuff.

Lots of drug addicts give lectures on addiction too. They tour all over the country telling people about all of the drugs they did in hopes of scaring people into not doing drugs themselves. I saw one of these this scared straight lectures in my high school once. It was some recovered heroin addict, and he was talking about typical heroin addict stuff, like shitting his pants, robbing off his mom and dad, being homeless and that sort of thing. At the conclusion of his story, he told everyone that he is no longer addicted to heroin, and that son of a bitch got a standing ovation. I couldn’t believe it. A standing ovation, just for not doing heroin. I thought not doing heroin was just something you were expected to do in life, like wiping your ass after you shit. Who knew something as simple as not doing heroin could get a standing ovation?

I had this life thing all wrong. Here I was like an idiot, never getting addicted to heroin when what I should have been doing was getting addicted the whole time. That way all I ever had to do to get people to give me a standing ovation was not do heroin.

I am not totally innocent though. I guess if I am being honest with myself, which is probably the point of a memoir, the truth is I love drugs. In fact, if someone were to show up at my house right now with a big bag of them, I would stop what I am doing and take them all. I wouldn’t even care what they were. I love them all just the same.

I just never had the kind of passion that addicts do to get fully addicted. You’d be surprised how much work goes into being a drug addict. Ask anyone who's ever dabbled in drugs before and they will tell you that drugs can be a real pain in the ass to get, and they can be pretty gosh darn expensive too. I was always much too lazy to ever become a full-blown addict.

If I only had a little bit more ambition, maybe I would have been one of those guys getting standing ovations for not doing heroin too. I always had the potential to become a really good drug addict. I shoplifted before, and I do shit my pants occasionally. Once in a while, I might even steal some money out of my mom’s purse. The only problem is that I just never did any of that stuff because of drugs.

And when I quit using drugs, it wasn't because I hit rock bottom, found God, or had a moment of clarity like you hear about when the real drug addicts stop using drugs. I quit doing drugs because they got to be too much of a headache. I was always scared that I was going to get arrested. Then I was worried about overdosing, and constantly stressing about how to get money to buy them. The whole thing was just not worth the aggravation for me anymore.

That is why I really admire the dedication of a full-blown drug addict. They have this laser focus, and they will stop at nothing to reach their goals. They rob. They steal. They beg. They even suck a dick from time to time. Now that is what I call drive.

I never had that kind of determination to do anything. Maybe when it comes down to it that is why I was never successful in life. I was never willing to suck dick for anything. I do remember trying to suck my own dick once. It was when I was a small boy in the bathtub at my nana’s house. It wasn’t for drugs or anything. It was more out of curiosity to see if I could do it. I bent over and I remember getting about two inches from the head, but it was still too far out of reach, so I simply gave up and went back to playing with my toy battleship, a trend that would follow for the rest of my life. Not playing with my toy battleship. I am talking about the trend of giving up. I hadn’t played with my bathtub toys in years.

I guess you might call me more of a recreational drug user. My drug use was more of a hobby that was defined by merriment and laughter more than an addiction that was defined by self-destruction and ruin. If I told my drug stories to a room full of high school students, they would leave that