My life is a fucking mess

Sometimes I think back and wonder how I got to this point. I was a promising kid, maybe a little unpolished, but brimming with potential and enthusiasm. I never thought I would be a brain surgeon, or a famous celebrity, I just hoped that I would be a car mechanic and maybe have my own auto body shop eventually. Instead, I'm a bloated, balding, twice-divorced lackey for some pencil-necked geek and his priveleged family. The very same geek I used to beat up on in high school. I can't prove it, but I have a sneaking suspicion that his son went back in time and completely fucked up my life.
I know it sounds crazy. I know time travel isn't supposed to be possible. But there's a few inconsistencies and nagging doubts that lead me to believe that this McFly kid has traveled through time for the express purpose of making me look like a douchebag. For one thing, he's always hanging out with that crazy old fruitcake Doc Brown. I remember that crazy old son of a bitch from my childhood, always yammering about some cockamamie nonsense and setting his barn on fire with his failed experiments. We used to cover that guy's house with eggs every Halloween. It makes no sense that Marty would hang out with that loser, unless Doc Brown has some kind of time machine they could use to go back in time and fuck up my life. It's really the only logical explanation, especially in light of the other strange facts.
For one thing, Marty is the spitting image of that asshole Calvin that seemed to appear for a week in high school for the express purpose of making my life a living hell. The kid is really a dead ringer. And it was strange how this new kid showed up, befriended George McFly--the guy I was bullying--and then suddenly George has the grapes to haul off and sucker punch me at the Enchantment Under the Sea school dance. I'd say it went all downhill from there. There was the weird incident where some old kook gave me a book of phony sports records and told me to keep it under wraps, but that just led to Calvin making my car skid into a truck filled with manure again. No one ever heard from him again. I'd love to see that little prick now, I'd break his fucking face open. But I'm not bitter.
I mean, I really appreciate what George did for me. He didn't have to give me a chance, not after the way I treated him in high school. When I was going through my second divorce and that fat bitch was going to garnish fifty per cent of my wages, I was probably at my lowest point. I was drinking three liters of bourbon a day, plus a six pack of brewskis or so. I was almost a year behind on rent. My '72 Chevelle had been impounded for unpaid parking tickets. To be honest, I probably would have done myself in if George hadn't offered me the position to be his personal car maintenance technician. At least, that's what my official title is. Everyone knows I'm just his goddamned lackey. Where did I go wrong? I used to fold twerps like that with one punch to the midsection. Now I'm begging George for forgiveness every time I miss a spot when washing one of the family's cars. I have no confidence in myself anymore. And I swear to God, somehow, some way, it has something to do with the McFly kid and that addle-brained old wizard Doc Brown. If I ever find out he did have something to do with screwing up my life, I'm stealing all the change out of his car's ashtray.