Thursday, April 8

Good Eye, Sniper.

As much as I hate the idea of having to work for money, unemployment is nothing short of a padded cell. I get up around 7 with Celia as she gets ready for work, send her off on her way, and do my househusband chores. I get everything done by 8. The house is spotless, I'm fed and showered, and I'm completely out of things to do. So I stew, and walk around, and listen to crappy music and slowly lose my mind. Much like reading that horrid run-on sentence.

My only saving grace is from 11:45 to 12:30, when Celia joins me at Pogo during her lunch break for some pool. This is where we can talk about everything or nothing; For me it's just nice to talk to someone, especially her. She's always busy eating and typing and worrying about her afternoon, so she can only half-listen to what nonsense I have to say. I, however, am giving her my complete attention because the house is still and quiet. Her scrolling text is the only moving thing in my field of vision. I hang on her every word.

I wait for the phone to ring from potential employers for hours at a time, making trips from the living room to the kitchen to the bathroom, and back to the living room again. These are the only 3 rooms in my apartment, so insanity ensues quickly. When 5:45 rolls around, and she finally comes home, I'm no better than a chocolate lab, jumping and barking and lapping at her face. She's annoyed and wants me to be still and quiet, and I'm back to square one for the rest of the night. I haven't left the house in days, and I'm wearing the same clothes and beard I wore from Tuesday. Once I do get a job, I'll be so far removed from the human rat race that I'll be completely un-hire-able. It's just as well, I'm not qualified for much anyways, because I choose not to be.



My only exercise is walking downstairs to get the mail that's not addressed to me, unless they want money from me that I don't have. I can honestly say that I'm currently bringing nothing to the table of life. I've tried to become a better person, but in the end nobody really gives a shit about that. Either way, the better person I've become is still no better than your garden variety serial killer or child molester. It's clear that I still have some work to do. My only job right now is to make my girl happy, and I repeatedly fail. My only consolence is that I fail at a lesser rate than years past. That's like winning your dollar back on a lottery ticket. You're better off not buying one in the first place. It's not worth the gamble. This needs to change.

I'm going to be someone's husband. I may even be someone's father. (I know who's husband I'm going to be, I just worded it that way for dramatic effect.) I'm getting no smarter, and my life is already at least 25% over. This self-depreciation will cure a bad mood, but it won't make tomorrow any better. That takes effort. Effort needs self-esteem, self-esteem needs self-worth, self-worth needs accomplishments, and accomplishments need effort.

Uh, oh.

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