It’s 2:22 AM and I can’t sleep. My brain's partying like it's 1999, and I'm just here, wide awake, regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.
The main culprit? Michael's crazy escapade. Seriously, his "let's gouge out my own eyes" performance is on loop in my head. I've tried rebooting my noggin, but it's like a bad acid trip that won't end. Dr. Nelson when you read this, I’d like to get a prescription for sleep aids, pretty please.
Wish I could just teleport myself back home and ask Willy if Rent-A-Center finally picked up their stuff from my place. Seriously, could I be any dumber? Why not just teleport directly inside my place to see for myself? Why do I have to ask Willy? Wait, if I'm going to teleport anywhere, it should be into a bank vault. But wait, then how would I teleport out? Why not just teleport to some remote tropical island where all my worries would be gone? Damn, overthink sucks.
Focus, Jack, on the actual issues here. What's really keeping me up? I've got a hunch it's those damn gambling debts. Those bookies are probably lining up outside my tiny studio, ready to collect. Those Rizetto goons are like clockwork visitors. They're not too rough on me for now, probably out of respect for my Pop, who's doing time. But their patience's wearing thin as evidenced by my last encounter with them where they hit me with a 2-ton SUV. Not cool.
The Rizettos are the neighborhood overlords, running this city Godfather-style. Whitey Bulger's got nothing on these guys. What's even crazier? Pop was their top hitman. Wrap your head around that. Speaking of crazy, I remember Dad showing up at my third-grade class pretending he was a plumber. Total embarrassment, man. All the other dads were heroes in uniform, and I had the secret assassin for a father pretending to be one of the Mario brothers. Thanks, Pop.
The guy was MIA through most of my childhood, busy doing hits for Carlos Rizetto. He missed Little League games but aced the assassination scene, you know? My dad was a top-tier hitman, a legend according to some. Then, one slip-up during an FBI operation and he's caught red-handed. The Feds wanted him to rat on the Rizetto bosses, but he never said a word.
I haven't visited Dad in ages. What do you say to a guy you hardly know? He wasn't around much. Mom only spilled details when we had to hide out at grandma's, fearing Rizetto foes. Weird stuff that made zero sense.
Carlos Rizetto once gave me a shot at earning, assuming I inherited Pop's loyalty. Tempting, given my debts, but I'm not that guy. Not a killer like Pop. I might fib a bit to the debt collectors or get wild in a tight spot, but I try to do right. Plus, it would break Mom's heart, and despite her issues, I care. She's hanging on, thanks to Pop's stash. Once I'm debt-free, I'll help her out and maybe get her into AA.
Hold up a sec, this conversation is off the record, right? If not, disregard everything. Can't risk testifying or some crap. Consider me the court jester. Everything above is pure fiction.
Anyhow, before I went full dumpster fire, I was an honest suit-and-tie guy, selling stuff at Interstellar Communications. Hitting the streets, Caramel Macchiato in hand, peddling our phone and internet packages. If I hit quotas, I'd bank some decent pay. But I got tired of dealing with pompous jerks. Some were cool, but those anti-salesman types made my life hell. Sales... It's one of those gigs that you're forced into if you skip college. Dropping out seemed cool then, but now? Lab rat Jack here.
After I got the boot from stability, I cashed in on unemployment. Later, I went full tilt, gambling away my lifeline like an idiot. Not the smartest, huh? Addicts don't think straight. You dive so deep that your brain tricks you into thinking a jackpot's the only salvation. Spoiler: I never hit the jackpot, just a jackpot of losses. The losing streak from hell. I even believed I was "due." Dream big, right? Wrong. Those alley bums you see in every big city? They're probably dreamers too. What's worse? I could've job-hunted instead of betting my future. But I didn't. So, here I am, the grand lab rat in an experiment. Stuck in a prison environment, just like dad.
Honestly, I'm in a crazy mental zone. Rock bottom's got a new meaning now. Ever question your sanity? I do. I ponder "who am I?" and "what's my damn problem?" all the time. It's hell, a straight-up nightmare. Need a hint, Docs? Some guidance?
Anyway, gotta attempt sleep.