Confrontations
Selling Yourself
My father lost his job. He had it for maybe two and a half days, which was enough time for the airport to consider him and his condition a liability to the company. His condition, a diseased heart. Doctors and health insurance agents are still sorting out what and who's to blame, but I've got the answer. Them.
The doctor uses ambiguous terms to cover his bare ass from catching a draft. His professional advice, and my personal favorite, at the top of the list is to "Avoid confrontations." An impossible feat if you take it at face value. The only value an employer will take.
Meanwhile, going on a year now, my father's retirement continues to slide into that abyss between desks. The debate on whether his heart condition was hereditary and whether or not, he's disabled. How heart disease, Death's #1 fan, can be write-offs to save money in this Fast Food Nation is as puzzling as insulin needles costing vasts amounts of money for diabetes patients. Shame on you for wanting to live. Shame on you twice for wanting to work and wanting something in return.
Irony has shit for meaning in this cynical world. The system that my father worked under for more than half his life is systematically fucking him over. He continues to sell himself short like everyone else that's supposed to be helping him. He grows more embittered knowing that the young guy across the street who could easily get hired, instead receives a monthly check in the mail to buy pot and finance a new truck.
He wants to contribute but he can't because of a poorly contrived system of letters. Isn't that what disability entails? Not being able to do something. Yet, they won't even give him that. He played by the rules and now that he's fallen out of status, nobody wants anything to do with him. The heart of justice keeps on a-beating, beating down, slow, without sound.
My father lost his job. He had it for maybe two and a half days, which was enough time for the airport to consider him and his condition a liability to the company. His condition, a diseased heart. Doctors and health insurance agents are still sorting out what and who's to blame, but I've got the answer. Them.
The doctor uses ambiguous terms to cover his bare ass from catching a draft. His professional advice, and my personal favorite, at the top of the list is to "Avoid confrontations." An impossible feat if you take it at face value. The only value an employer will take.
Meanwhile, going on a year now, my father's retirement continues to slide into that abyss between desks. The debate on whether his heart condition was hereditary and whether or not, he's disabled. How heart disease, Death's #1 fan, can be write-offs to save money in this Fast Food Nation is as puzzling as insulin needles costing vasts amounts of money for diabetes patients. Shame on you for wanting to live. Shame on you twice for wanting to work and wanting something in return.
Irony has shit for meaning in this cynical world. The system that my father worked under for more than half his life is systematically fucking him over. He continues to sell himself short like everyone else that's supposed to be helping him. He grows more embittered knowing that the young guy across the street who could easily get hired, instead receives a monthly check in the mail to buy pot and finance a new truck.
He wants to contribute but he can't because of a poorly contrived system of letters. Isn't that what disability entails? Not being able to do something. Yet, they won't even give him that. He played by the rules and now that he's fallen out of status, nobody wants anything to do with him. The heart of justice keeps on a-beating, beating down, slow, without sound.