Yes, let's hear it, folks... We welcome you back to the further expectoration of the Kosher Pork Chronicles! With a side of pickles and some nice cheese!
Yeah, yeah.. Last time I wrote the UnPresident had made his State of Disunion speech, and now it's two months later. Well, I have a good reason. Really, I do. I was being lazy and depressed. See, told you it was a rock solid and honest reason. The hunt for work got desperate. I got down to six dollars in my account, and if a paycheck, a chunk of my previous apartment's security deposit, and some birthday cash hadn't come my way, I'm not sure I'd still be here.. or least I'd be here, independently. Twice, I got so whacked out, I nearly called my folks to confess the error of my ways and get back on the gravy train. I couldn't even get a callback from an office where I sent a resume by email, to just find out if my resume got there. I did sort of find work, if I was willing to hold out two months, to work as a gas station cashier. The funniest thing in the end, was I was right. As much as I like being right, I rarely expect it. The idea was to move here to Seattle, find a job in security and badabingbadaboom. Now it was only supposed to take a couple months. I did find my security job, a good post downtown heavy on the legwork, I just found it in three and a half months. You'd think I would have learned by now.. Keep the faith in the ol' gut about what is going to be. But I rarely do learn. I don't think my housemates understood how bad off I was, or they did, and they didn't let me know. I was like a manic depressive, light-headed and upbeat because being moody and dark just wore out its welcome. I was no less sure that I had screwed up. Least it explains why The Middle Way interests me.. extremes can be hard on the chassis.
So here, I am. Employed. The job is slow, monotonous, and dull. Perfect. Just what I want in a security job. I smile for a few hours, wander a crapload of floors, and generally do a lot of nothing. And for this, I earn eleven an hour. Least now I understand why I was so wrapped up in the desperate need for employment. Okay, I like living under a roof. This is always good. But more than that, since I got the job, how I relate to the house, with its attached community, has changed. And it's from the simplest of anchors. Having a job gives me something real to attach myself to my environment. Before, it was still, the theoretical feel and transitory sense of an incomplete experiment, something left with factors untested due to real world stimuli. I wanted to believe this move was about something greater than the mundanity of independence, maybe that's still true, but I understand better now what I think I want from all this. Just to feel real, like I'm not just some ephemeral intellectual living detached from life. Now, don't worry, I won't start getting desires to wear flannel on my day off, and catch salmon with my bare hands. Work is still just work. It's chop wood, carry water. It's what I make of all of my life, that counts. And my writings will now be available in nicely-bound cloud-colored pages at the local Hallmark store.
Fuck it. Could be worse. I could be selling draperies in Houston.
Yeah, yeah.. Last time I wrote the UnPresident had made his State of Disunion speech, and now it's two months later. Well, I have a good reason. Really, I do. I was being lazy and depressed. See, told you it was a rock solid and honest reason. The hunt for work got desperate. I got down to six dollars in my account, and if a paycheck, a chunk of my previous apartment's security deposit, and some birthday cash hadn't come my way, I'm not sure I'd still be here.. or least I'd be here, independently. Twice, I got so whacked out, I nearly called my folks to confess the error of my ways and get back on the gravy train. I couldn't even get a callback from an office where I sent a resume by email, to just find out if my resume got there. I did sort of find work, if I was willing to hold out two months, to work as a gas station cashier. The funniest thing in the end, was I was right. As much as I like being right, I rarely expect it. The idea was to move here to Seattle, find a job in security and badabingbadaboom. Now it was only supposed to take a couple months. I did find my security job, a good post downtown heavy on the legwork, I just found it in three and a half months. You'd think I would have learned by now.. Keep the faith in the ol' gut about what is going to be. But I rarely do learn. I don't think my housemates understood how bad off I was, or they did, and they didn't let me know. I was like a manic depressive, light-headed and upbeat because being moody and dark just wore out its welcome. I was no less sure that I had screwed up. Least it explains why The Middle Way interests me.. extremes can be hard on the chassis.
So here, I am. Employed. The job is slow, monotonous, and dull. Perfect. Just what I want in a security job. I smile for a few hours, wander a crapload of floors, and generally do a lot of nothing. And for this, I earn eleven an hour. Least now I understand why I was so wrapped up in the desperate need for employment. Okay, I like living under a roof. This is always good. But more than that, since I got the job, how I relate to the house, with its attached community, has changed. And it's from the simplest of anchors. Having a job gives me something real to attach myself to my environment. Before, it was still, the theoretical feel and transitory sense of an incomplete experiment, something left with factors untested due to real world stimuli. I wanted to believe this move was about something greater than the mundanity of independence, maybe that's still true, but I understand better now what I think I want from all this. Just to feel real, like I'm not just some ephemeral intellectual living detached from life. Now, don't worry, I won't start getting desires to wear flannel on my day off, and catch salmon with my bare hands. Work is still just work. It's chop wood, carry water. It's what I make of all of my life, that counts. And my writings will now be available in nicely-bound cloud-colored pages at the local Hallmark store.
Fuck it. Could be worse. I could be selling draperies in Houston.
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