Chapter 48: Not that kind of hacker.

2016.

“What the hell am I doing?” ⁠—⁠I thought.

I was seated on the floor, my back resting against the public library's wall. Amelia Earhart, North Hollywood.

ARM tablet in front of me, Termux, multiple session tabs ⁠—⁠mostly running commands through ssh. Mostly servers that I already had access to. Copying data, scanning stuff, hoping for an exit.

And it was cool and all that. I should have worn a hoodie. Me in my hoodie, that old lady would have stayed away.

But what was the point? My story wasn't one of vengeance: my short bursts of anger weren't compelling enough. I wanted to be nice. A nice person. I hated them, and I would have pressed a button if it released the righteous fury they deserved upon them.

A button, I would press. Maybe two. It wasn't my morals stopping me: maybe I was vindictive, but not dedicatedly vindictive. To spend hours seeking vengeance isn't productive. And it is quite unhealthy!

What was I thinking? It had been desert stupidity what had brought me to LA. Stupidity pushed me into wanting to leave academia. Could I still go back? I was tired, and the feeling of shame was still so engulfing that I wouldn't allow myself expose to more ridicule.

No, it was over. Everything was over.

I really didn't want to go back home. Not to Eve's home, anyway. I was leaving for good. I wasn't sure whether Eve was going to take Hank's side. Probably not. It's irrelevant: she had her own story going on, a story I wouldn't partake in.

There was nothing for me anymore. Not in Dangerous Crush, not at Eve's, not in academia, not in Rustown. I would just leave them all, not leaving any notes.

Outside, they were happily walking ⁠—⁠thirty‑somethings, around my age. Everyone my age seemed to be doing relatively well. Although I didn't envy any of them, their lives seemed to be comfortably happy.

I hadn't been and wouldn't ever be financially greedy, yet I suffered from a different kind of greed: I wanted more success. More happiness. Life had told me that I could achieve comfort, but not happiness. Every second, every minute, every single hour was going to be lost. If the hour was meant to achieve anything at all, a higher goal, that goal would ultimately fail.

As I had grown older, the yearning of finding the optimal life had sabotaged itself. It had caused a crisis in which I would undertake more desperate and ineffectual measures. I was fighting the quicksand.

Most things, most experiences, most people couldn't be included in the devised perfect life. Not under a shallow, socialite point of view. But as in “most people actually suck”: to stumble upon them immediately destroys the chances of optimality.

I already had thrown my phone in the trash. That's what it was. Where it belonged. I thought about wiping it and giving it away. That thought didn't last long: smart phones had always felt like a curse that I wouldn't randomly put on anyone ⁠—⁠I wouldn't want to be responsible for suboptimality in their lifes.