Working From Home and the Reflexive “Fuck You!” From a Sixty-Year-Old Man

So, I have noticed this about myself lately.

I’ll randomly blurt out “fuck you” throughout the day, at nothing in particular.

Like a hiccup, my “fuck yous” arrive without warning.

Most of the time, they happen when I’m alone, but not always, as my wife can attest.

I might be walking from the kitchen to the living room when BAM! – a sharp and sincerely felt “fuck you” burst from my lips.

Sometimes the “fuck yous” happen when driving alone in my car.

These car “fuck yous” aren’t preceded by a driver cutting me off or failing to use a turn signal (e.g., the standard “fuck you” driving scenarios). No, instead, it’s just me driving in peace and quiet when out of nowhere comes a terse and curt “fuck you!”

I’m not afflicted by a sudden onset of Tourette Syndrome, but something’s definitely going on with me. So, I’ve been trying to self-diagnose.

The first step in diagnosing Random Fuck You Syndrome (it’s what I’m calling this) is identifying life changes that might be contributing factors.

 Change 1: Being Alone

One thing that’s changed for me is the number of hours I spend alone.

I’ve worked from home for more than 20 years — but recently, working from home has transitioned to working from home alone.

For most of my career, there’s always been another human in the house (for at least part of my workday). But this past year, our younger son moved out, and my wife, who leaves for work at 4:15 in the morning, goes to her mom’s house after work to visit and help with chores.

We have a dog who keeps me company throughout the day, but she’s deaf and, consequently, quiet as a mouse.

So, the number of hours I spend alone during the workday has increased significantly. For long periods, it’s just me, my laptop, the refrigerator’s hum, and my deaf dog snoring.

Being alone is not the sole cause of Randon Fuck You Syndrome, but I think it contributes to it.

Change 2: My TV and Phone 

When you work from home alone, your smartphone and television become closer companions to you than they used to be.

I turn my TV on shortly after waking up and listen to the news while going about my morning routine of putting on a pot of coffee, feeding, petting, and talking to my dog (yes, I know she can’t hear me), making the bed, and emptying the dishwasher.

When I’m not absorbing content from work, I’m absorbing it from my smartphone and television. Throughout the day, I’m receiving input constantly – All that input gets stacked in the recesses of my mind, where it sits for hours, without interruption from healthy interactions and conversations with other human beings.

Change 3: Our Turbulent World and the Nature of Content

When the world is a mess, as ours is, having access to information is a double-edged sword. You stay informed, but you worry – a lot.

We have constant access to information about the war in Ukraine, the rise of fascism at home, the climate crisis, inflation, and the looming influence of AI, all contribute to an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty and anxiety.

On top of the pile of the undeniable mess sits a fairly new development (in terms of consequence): the demise of critical thinking and American’s willingness to relinquish their mental and intellectual autonomy to fantastical conspiracy theories and a known crook whose vision for America rests on retribution, revenge, and fascist-ideologies.

I can’t tell you how many interviews I’ve seen recently of Qanon followers who believe JFK is still alive, JFK junior faked his own death, and Donald Trump is a Christ-like figure divinely sent to save America from a cannibalistic cabal of elites.

Donald Trump, (a man credibly charged with stealing top-secret documents, directing a collaborative effort to overturn a free and fair election (and strong-arming state officials to do the same) said, “Don’t believe what you see or hear, believe what I tell you.” And millions of Americans are doing just that.

I stew at the knowledge that these people get a seat at the table and have a say in selecting the next president – that their vote counts the same as the vote from rational individuals who use critical thinking to guide their decisions.

This is a significant change, not just for me (a guy working at home alone), but for our country.

Change 4: Work Burnout 

At sixty, what’s required of me at work and where I am philosophically have diverged irreconcilably.

I feel it in my bones and gut every morning I wake up.

There’s a nagging sense of entitlement that at this phase of life, I’ve earned the right to slow down, take my foot off the gas, and smell the roses.

I romanticize about a job that doesn’t follow me home every night. A job that ends when the day ends and doesn’t occupy my mind ceaselessly.

When I look at my workstation, I stress out about the amount of work I have to complete – work that no longer interests me – and the mental energy required to barely push through it.

That agitates the shit out of me.

So, these four changes – an increase in the amount of time being alone, unfettered access to information, the shit-state of our world and America’s growing population of unthinking Trump supporters, and job burnout – are contributing factors to the “Fuck Yous!” building inside my head and Random Fuck You Syndrome (RFYS).

At this phase of life, I have both no fucks to give, yet I’m full of “fuck yous” – it’s a strange dichotomy. 

As I see it, the cure is retirement (a year or two off) and voting the current Trump culture into oblivion.

After that, I’ll regain control of my “fuck yous.” Until then, Random Fuck Yous will reign.

The Last Dance

When trouble sits in worry’s kettle

and scattered thoughts refuse to settle

we fold our days into tomorrow

and look at time as blood to borrow


Our parts are portions of the sum

we suck the pit out of the plum

and press its truth into our tongue


We swim around each other’s silence

Refuse the gift of self-reliance

then wear the badge of our defiance


We stretch our souls on to a drum

We beat it bare until it’s numb

then grind our smiles to the gum

to the nervous laughter of everyone


We paint the stars on to our eyes

We sing sad songs and lullabies

We crack the door, let in the light

to wrestle darkness from the night


We sit across from our despair

It smiles back, without a care

We let it in, we close the door

We dance above the kitchen floor

The Cleaner and His Cat

He stares blankly at his coffee, wondering how long he’s been sitting, cup in hand. The last sip must have been hot. He can still feel the blister on the tip of his tongue.

A dark sadness hangs on his face like a Picasso. He hates the look.

“Definitely his blue period,” he muses, half smirking at his reflection in the dining room mirror.

He mostly avoids reflective surfaces. Feeling depressed is terrible enough; he doesn’t need to see it. He doesn’t need to be reminded of it.

His cat circles impatiently, rubbing against his calf. “Time to eat,” he purrs. . . . “Snap out of it!” he meows. 

On days like today, he’s grateful for his cat. The cat’s well-timed reminders keep the man from the doorknob and belt and the dark thoughts that tie everything together. 

He whispers, “My demise will have to wait; there’s a cat to feed and a litterbox to clean.”

His apartment is a shambles. It mirrors the cluttered chaos in his head. Based on experience, he knows a good house cleaning will lift his spirits.

He often wonders how feng shui works its magic on the mind. “I’ll have to google that,” he says toward his full-bellied cat, who bathes contently in a patch of sun on the kitchen floor.

The sink is full. There’s half-eaten food caked on dishes, the remnants of last week’s menu. Why not just clean up after each meal? Especially knowing that cleanliness and order help quell his anxiety.

“Why do I let things pile up?

What keeps me from staying on top of things? 

Will I ever grow out of this?

That last question knocks around the inside of his skull like an unselected lottery ping-pong ball.

Will I ever grow out of this?

Of course, he didn’t know the answer to that question. He remembers a bright era of pre-affliction, which gives him hope. He thinks, “If I magically went from being happy to depressed, why can’t I miraculously go from depressed to happy?”

Unfortunately, there’s a history – a consistent footprint on the ladder of his family’s DNA. He’s been branded in a sense, and sometimes that feels so fatalistic he simply wants to give up.

But he doesn’t.

He continues to clean.

Sometimes

Sometimes

it’s a struggle

just to keep my eyes open

I feel anxiety’s weight

resting fixed

like a fishing lure

that’s been dropped

in the dead-center

of my thoughts


Sometimes

I hear the clock ticking

I feel the pages turning

Knowing that most of my days

are in the rear view

a fast-approaching horizon

through the windshield


One eye on the road

I fumble with the radio dial

musical snippets and static

trying to find that perfect

sequence of songs

before the ride ends

That’s the goal