Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.
Visit my domain to dive face-first into the wild ride of my brain — a mashup of raw truths, dirty jokes, mental fistfights, and midnight rambles you didn’t know you needed.
Saint Dirty Face. Imperfect on purpose. Faithful with fangs. Here to spill it all, laugh at the absurd, and maybe light a match under your too-comfortable chair.
You ever notice how everyone is still pretending things are normal?
The economy: perfectly stable, definitely not powered by hopes, prayers, and four credit cards taped together like a Frankenstein wallet. Society: totally united, as long as nobody speaks, breathes, or makes eye contact. Workplaces: smoothly functioning, if you ignore the smoke, the alarms, and Cheryl in HR chain-smoking behind the dumpster whispering, “I can’t do this anymore.”
Meanwhile me?
I don’t go to work and deal with their bullshit anymore.
Nope.
I walked out of that circus tent like a lion who realized the whip guy is 5’6”, pre-diabetic, and one panic attack away from folding.
I’m not fighting clowns for peanuts.
Not anymore.
Today (Thursday) Shows Up Like:
“Hey. Remember me? Reality? Yeah… I’m still garbage.”
And everyone else just keeps clocking in
like they’re volunteering for psychological experiments sponsored by Monster Energy and unresolved childhood trauma.
I watch from a healthy distance now, like wildlife research:
Ah yes. Observe the American Worker in their natural habitat: hunched, caffeinated, and spiritually deceased.
Majestic creatures, truly.
Work Culture in 2025:
“We’re a family.”
Oh absolutely.
A family.
The kind of family where:
the favorite child gets promoted for breathing, the middle child does all the work and gets “pizza party” recognition, and the uncle in accounting is one bad audit away from a manifesto.
I remember supervisors saying crap like:
“We all must sacrifice.”
Buddy…
You mean us, not you.
You’re giving inspirational speeches while driving home in a new SUV bought with the savings from firing half the staff.
And you have the nerve to sip a Starbucks latte while talking about “budget concerns”?
Get thee behind me, Spreadsheet Judas.
But let’s talk about the real code of the workplace:
Look busy. Pretend to care. Die quietly so no one has to fill out extra forms.
Extra credit if you:
say “Sure, no problem” when it is in fact a problem go to a “team building event” in a park that smells like hot dog water or apologize to the printer.
Yes.
We’ve all done that walk of shame:
“Please… just print… I’m begging you.”
Meanwhile, I’m Just Out Here Like:
I didn’t “quit.”
I escaped.
I pulled a Shawshank Redemption but with more cussing and fewer tunnels.
The sun hits different when you ain’t being spiritually mugged.
And Here’s the Gospel Truth:
We are not broken.
We are awake.
We finally realized the system was designed to drain us, tame us, and replace us with someone cheaper.
And we said:
Nah. I’m still holy enough to cause trouble.
Rebellion isn’t always fire and riots.
Sometimes rebellion is:
Sleeping in. Breathing. Laughing. Remembering you have a soul.
Today’s Prayer:
Lord, keep my mouth shut just long enough to avoid jail time, but not so long that I start tolerating fools again. Amen.
Closing Words
We may be tired.
We may be sarcastic.
We may be out here mentally flipping tables like Jesus in the temple on $2 margarita night.
They pulled their BS early, got on my bad side, and I ended up saying ”Are you fucking retarded?” —HAHA those little bitches, but honestly? I’m at peace. That kind of eerie, calm peace that shows up right after you’ve stopped giving a damn.
Let the place burn if it wants to. (Kidding… mostly.) I’m past caring about titles, politics, or who’s kissing whose backside this week. I gave that building years of my life, and somewhere along the way, the soul leaked out of it.
What’s wild is watching how today’s youth run things. Their priorities? PR, punctuality, and pretending to care. Back in my day, we didn’t worry about “branding” or “optics.” We worried about patients—real people, real health, real lives. We showed up, did the hard work, and left with pride, not hashtags.
Now it’s all about how fast you reply to an email or how perfectly your lanyard hangs.
Newsflash, kid: image doesn’t heal anyone.
But you know what? I’m good.
Because I know this exile isn’t punishment—it’s promotion prep. The next door’s already creaking open somewhere, and when it does, I’ll walk through it with calloused hands and clean conscience. Divine power’s steering the wheel now.
There’s something weirdly sacred about Sunday night.
Not holy—just haunted.
It’s that stretch between freedom and servitude where time slows down just enough for you to remember everything you didn’t do. The laundry mocks you, the fridge looks like an abandoned crime scene, and your brain is already calculating how much coffee it’ll take to fake productivity Monday morning.
Gen X knows this mood better than anyone. We grew up when TV signed off with the national anthem and static—when night actually ended. Now, Netflix just asks if we’re still watching like a judgmental ex.
Sunday night hits different because it’s nostalgia mixed with dread.
The hangover of adulthood.
The ghost of Saturday night whispering, “We used to be wild, remember?”
And yeah, we do. We remember mixtapes, pay phones, and when anxiety didn’t come with a co-pay. We remember being the middle kids of history—too analog for the future, too digital for the past.
So what do we do?
We pour a drink. We throw on a song that still knows our scars. We light a candle for the week ahead and hope Monday forgets our name.
Because come hell, work emails, or unpaid overtime—
We’re still here.
Still dirty.
Still rebellious.
Still the generation that laughs at the void and keeps going anyway.
You can tell who’s Gen X on Halloween — we’re the ones who don’t need a costume to look haunted. We’ve been carrying that existential eyeliner since 1989. While everyone else scrolls for last-minute Amazon costumes, we’re out here dusting off leather jackets that survived more revolutions than TikTok could handle.
We remember when Halloween meant freedom — the night the world looked weird enough to finally match our insides. No curated pumpkin-spice aesthetics, no “content strategy,” just a cheap mask, a trash bag cape, and enough angst to power a small substation.
Millennials had Hot Topic. Gen Z has algorithms.
We had rage and eyeliner, baby — and we made it fashion.
☠️ The Ghosts We Still Dance With
We grew up on urban legends, VHS static, and the soundtrack of rebellion: Alice in Chains, Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden. Every power chord was a spell, every scream a sermon.
Our Halloween parties were half séance, half therapy — candles flickering in beer bottles, mixtapes looping between the sacred and the profane.
The real monster under the bed wasn’t Freddy or Jason — it was mediocrity. And we swore we’d never become that.
(Okay, fine — now we pay mortgages and yell at thermostats, but our inner demon still listens to Ministry.)
🩸 The Trick and the Treat
Here’s the trick: The world told us to grow up.
Here’s the treat: We never did.
We wear our scars like badges, our sarcasm like armor.
We still believe rebellion isn’t about chaos — it’s about choice.
It’s saying no when everyone else sells their soul for a discount.
So this Halloween, when the fog rolls in and the porch lights flicker, remember — Gen X doesn’t need saving. We are the haunting.
We’re the middle children of history, raised by broken dreams and mixtapes, still walking through the fire with a cigarette, a smirk, and one mantra echoing in the dark:
She leans against the bar, a faint smirk drawn in cigarette smoke.
He watches from the mirror, pretending he’s just another ghost passing through.
But the truth? They’re both hunting something — maybe forgiveness, maybe a fight, maybe just someone who understands why the nights feel so damn long.
Their eyes meet.
And that’s it.
The jukebox stutters, the air thickens, and the bartender already knows this kind of trouble doesn’t end with a ride home — it ends with a memory you’ll taste for weeks.
“You look like someone who’s tired of pretending,” she says.
“Depends,” he replies, “you offering a better lie?”
She laughs — low, dangerous, like a promise you shouldn’t believe.
He slides his glass closer, and their reflections touch before their hands do.
No names. No past. Just two sinners in limbo, drunk on the illusion that for a few hours, the world can be rewritten in neon and whiskey.
And for a moment — it is.
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Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Kiss Like a Sinner, But Talk Like a Saint.™]
Saint Dirty Face 