How long can one person sit in their apartment, devoid of all social interaction, before going mad? How much daytime TV can a human consume before losing all faith in humanity, and in modern television programming? And just how much stress can one neurotic Jewess endure before going completely bat-shit insane?
It’s not the “not having a job” thing that’s freaking me out, it’s just that I’m not into living a life of frugality. I’m a Taurus, I’m a glutton. I like to be comfortable. I go to concerts, go out drinking, get brunch, take cabs. Quality of life is just as important as paying the rent, and if I can’t have fun then I can’t enjoy life.
Friday, July Something
Well dear reader, it has finally happened. After being unemployed since March 3, I have finally snapped my cap, gone ‘round the bend, bought a ticket for the Up With People Concert, and begun wearing traffic cones on my head as cutting-edge fashion. What I mean to say is that I’ve caught the disease reserved for the elderly, the insane and individuals without access to a Gregorian Calendar.
It was waiting downstairs.
As you probably have learned from hard-won experience, dear reader, the things that blindside you and alter the course of your life (and not in a good way), the horrific things, don’t come accompanied by a dramatic swell of orchestral music and terse lines of movie script. There aren’t any vampires coming in through the windows at 1 a.m. No, the horrors pop up unheralded on a sunny, ordinary Wednesday morning out of a clear blue sky.
Second Full Week, Unemployed
I warmed up the car this morning at 8:45, drove Rochelle to work, stopped into Wal-Mart for squirrel food, then straight back to my PC to file for unemployment claims, work on some writing, try and figure out how the hell to get a job, and see if Willie Raylan will mosey on downstairs to have another conversation with me.
Day, me say day-ay-ay-o
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Day, me say day, me say day, me say day…Daylight come and me wan’ go home.
…As you already know, Dear Reader, I’ve been canned, sacked, terminated, booted, let go, boned in the ass, as they say. My former employer, the mayor, was decent enough to let me save face by submitting a letter of resignation in which I stated that I was going on to bigger, better things, like dumpster diving and geriatric male prostitution.
Recently (so recently, most of my co-workers are blissfully unaware) I have been let go, terminated, been hit by the Big Ugly Axe, sacked.
Dear Reader, for your amusement, while I am still giddy over the prospect of getting to stay home and confident about my ability to land another situation making more money and with more prestige and better benefits, I’ve elected to journal my experiences. I think it will be a fun experience and educational for other middle-aged men who will then be energized and encouraged to lose their jobs as well. Hell, maybe we can form regional and national clubs (like Skid Row in Los Angeles and the Bowery in NYC). At the very least, this will make a fun suicide note.