If only life could be ad-free
I'm sitting around,
Stinking of bad laundry.
It looks like D-land tanked for good, this time. Fare thee well?
I have this silly idea of going to dinner with Dad and the sibs in a suit. I dress up occasionally; less so lately. People tend to think less of me for getting all fancy for small things. I know -- all the fun of being eccentric really gets killed when you start counting on public opinion.
I feel kind of shabby, in my thrift store makeshift get-ups. I look at store windows in my neighborhood, and feel lame. Even my ties are losing their zest. And now -- the stuff I'm in now smells like feet. I think it's the whole thing, down to the underwear. The warmer, and moister my pits/back gets, the more I can detect the sour scent of bad laundry.
But: tonight, there will be a dinner. I may get out of the suit by then. Sleeping with my clothes on tends to mean that I'm all ready to go, hours in advance. I think that the only exception I have to this ploy is work clothes. I would never wear a smelly ol' monkeysuit to bed. That would have sucked with my last job -- burger-flipping.
That reminds me; everyone thinks I need a job. Well, everyone but maybe Dr. Y.
My aunt reminds me every time we talk that I'm financially fucked. Do this, do that. She means well. Maybe I'm too pessimistic to bother advertising get-paid-for-housecleaning desires, and only accept females as clients. Maybe that makes sense to decline?
Even Mom thinks I need a job.
No matter the state of my money troubles (I'm only really short $200 a month, in order to live the way I'd want), I can't really imagine myself working. This is the rut that I usually get in, when I stop working for extended periods. It's been a year, as of February, this time. I hate explaining my absence from the workforce. I'm sick. Oh yeah, what with? ___. What's that like; what meds are you on?
It all just goes downhill from there.
I hate to self-bash, but, I really am being a pussy bitch here. I've worked; it's never lasted long. I hate that I would come to rely on the income, and it will (in all likeliness) be taken away on a whim. I'm not any good at rebounding jobs. I have a tough enough time finding any suckers to take me in for employment to begin with. It tends to take 2-3 months of real effort to get a job. Fast food is out, because that's just it: I'm not fast.
I don't know if I'm being unrealistic when I tell people I need the simplest job possible. I picture myself doing the sort of stuff delegated to "special" workers. Family always tells me that I could get something well-paid. I couldn't even qualify for a job scrubbing toilets -- I know, I tried. I'm damn useless: forgetful, clumsy, and way too talkative. I'm the "special" worker. Just a little more verbose, maybe. That's about all, though.
Experience and transportation are my real obstacles. Those are concrete.
You can't be a janitor, if you take the bus. Nor a locksmith. You can't clean a hotel room if you haven't done it before -- for a year, at the least; added, you'd better drive. Office work? Well hell, I'm still running on Windows XP. Liquor store? Hell. Maybe. Do they hire often? Well -- that might be a bad idea; I'm not a drinker. I don't know what goes well with what. Better study a bartender handbook.
Phooey.
Stinking of bad laundry.
It looks like D-land tanked for good, this time. Fare thee well?
I have this silly idea of going to dinner with Dad and the sibs in a suit. I dress up occasionally; less so lately. People tend to think less of me for getting all fancy for small things. I know -- all the fun of being eccentric really gets killed when you start counting on public opinion.
I feel kind of shabby, in my thrift store makeshift get-ups. I look at store windows in my neighborhood, and feel lame. Even my ties are losing their zest. And now -- the stuff I'm in now smells like feet. I think it's the whole thing, down to the underwear. The warmer, and moister my pits/back gets, the more I can detect the sour scent of bad laundry.
But: tonight, there will be a dinner. I may get out of the suit by then. Sleeping with my clothes on tends to mean that I'm all ready to go, hours in advance. I think that the only exception I have to this ploy is work clothes. I would never wear a smelly ol' monkeysuit to bed. That would have sucked with my last job -- burger-flipping.
That reminds me; everyone thinks I need a job. Well, everyone but maybe Dr. Y.
My aunt reminds me every time we talk that I'm financially fucked. Do this, do that. She means well. Maybe I'm too pessimistic to bother advertising get-paid-for-housecleaning desires, and only accept females as clients. Maybe that makes sense to decline?
Even Mom thinks I need a job.
No matter the state of my money troubles (I'm only really short $200 a month, in order to live the way I'd want), I can't really imagine myself working. This is the rut that I usually get in, when I stop working for extended periods. It's been a year, as of February, this time. I hate explaining my absence from the workforce. I'm sick. Oh yeah, what with? ___. What's that like; what meds are you on?
It all just goes downhill from there.
I hate to self-bash, but, I really am being a pussy bitch here. I've worked; it's never lasted long. I hate that I would come to rely on the income, and it will (in all likeliness) be taken away on a whim. I'm not any good at rebounding jobs. I have a tough enough time finding any suckers to take me in for employment to begin with. It tends to take 2-3 months of real effort to get a job. Fast food is out, because that's just it: I'm not fast.
I don't know if I'm being unrealistic when I tell people I need the simplest job possible. I picture myself doing the sort of stuff delegated to "special" workers. Family always tells me that I could get something well-paid. I couldn't even qualify for a job scrubbing toilets -- I know, I tried. I'm damn useless: forgetful, clumsy, and way too talkative. I'm the "special" worker. Just a little more verbose, maybe. That's about all, though.
Experience and transportation are my real obstacles. Those are concrete.
You can't be a janitor, if you take the bus. Nor a locksmith. You can't clean a hotel room if you haven't done it before -- for a year, at the least; added, you'd better drive. Office work? Well hell, I'm still running on Windows XP. Liquor store? Hell. Maybe. Do they hire often? Well -- that might be a bad idea; I'm not a drinker. I don't know what goes well with what. Better study a bartender handbook.
Phooey.