When you don’t think things could get any worse, they get better. An ounce of positivity can now leak from my fingertips as I am now employed. I was warned of my lay off 17 months ago and have been looking for work for 14 months. It only took a few hundred applications, 18 interviews, one 3,000 mile relocation, 4 blow jobs, 1 murder and 2 unmentionables to get back on the path to almost success! So much of my humor derived from my forced poverty, frustration, rejection and desire to physically harm my previous employer. But I can assure you, there will be plenty of new material from a government job, a 2-hour commute and coworkers….and I do still want to harm my previous employer.
I also had to buy a car for the commute but I’m not quite sure how to feel about such an obligatory purchase. I can assume the body convulsions and vomiting that commenced upon signing the paperwork is a sign that I was not ready to buy a new car. By the way, I honest to s**t did puke in my mouth in front of the salesman when signing. I am known for digestive retaliation: explosive gut before soccer games, raging flatulence on dates, and shaking and vomiting onset by anxiety.
I would like to thank a few people who helped me get through the last 14 months. This triumphant feat was not possible without their inspiration and support.
To my mother,
I would like to thank my mother for reminding me why I needed to remain sober, frugal and calm during this crisis. Her drunkassness provided me with the incentive I needed to not drink as it would amplify the feeling that I was a loser. I cannot think of anything more powerful to keep you from spending money and falling into alcoholism as a drunk, old, washed-up addict slurring on the other line talking about getting 86’ed from Applebees. Thanks, Egg Donor.
To my landlord,
I appreciate her support in my time of frustration. If I ever thought I might not be able to make rent, I was not alone. There was always a lucky chance that my landlady would see me out and about during the day and feel compelled, on a Wednesday at 2 pm, to ask me if I was working yet. I don’t know if it was the house shoes, quitters (those are sweatpants to those of you in denial), bandana or hand-washing laundry in the basement that led her on. But she’s a keen one. Thanks, Naggy Naggerson
To the neighborhood homeless guy,
When I thought it couldn’t get any worse I would see him and his cardboard sign and know that it could. His dirty face, his monkey odor and the methadone induced drooling was always the inspiration I needed to go back to my apartment and apply to more jobs. I appreciate that he still asked me for change. Thinking that I had any money to give made me feel like I still looked valuable and employable. I don’t know how he got there, but my sober, college loan-owing ass was sure as hell not going down like that.
To the US tax payer,
Your tax dollars are going are sometimes well spent. They help people like me keep landlady and neighborhood homeless guy at bay. Now it’s time to sit back, relax and revel in your forced investment. The world is now one more employee richer and an American consumer has been reborn. It’s too bad that I plan to spend all my excess money this year on precious metals, massages, and i-Gagdets. And I’m sorry American car companies, I bought a Prius! Pronounced pry-us to you fuel inefficient folk.
Happy New Year, Blogdom!
Solomonian 