Trying to stay positive when you’re flat broke and you owe money is a challenge. It’s hard work. I should get paid for that. Trying to blog under the same circumstances is close to impossible. Your brain tells you that every second you should be looking for a job. So I’m giving myself about the time it takes to eat a twinkie to finish this post. It’s cool. It gives me fifteen seconds to stop checking my phone and e-mail for responses from the temp agency and various potential employers. I applied at a car sales lot, an online horticultural magazine, a catering event coordinator, a corner deli, a window cleaning company, a content development organization – I even applied at Starbucks. I’m reminded of Ross Perot’s line in the presidential debates between him and Clinton and Bush: “I’m be happy to make shoes, I’ll be happy to make clothing, I’ll make sausage. You just give me a job…”
While I’m sure Perot thought making sausage was noble and that it would do for him in a pickle, he went to a private school and was an eagle scout and all that and never had to make sausage. If somebody had a sausage factory around here and they needed me I’d make sausage. You just give me a job.
I almost applied for a custodian job, but it was part time and in Renton and you had to jump through all these hoops and it was $13.83 an hour – seemed like a long way to go to work in hell and not make enough money to pay for gas. I have $10 in the bank so I couldn’t pay for gas to get there anyway. I wonder how many people have been unemployed as long as me. If Heather didn’t support me I would be in a shitty trailer somewhere living off my IRA at a penalty. I’m in continual debate with myself as to whether it’s more depressing to be poor on the street or poor in a house where your needs are taken care of but you’re constantly wracked with guilt. Probably the latter: food and love and a safe place to sleep whether you deserve it or not.
It continues to be gray and dreary here, which suits my mood just fine. It also provided a good backdrop for St. Patrick’s Day. It’s my cat Jethro’s birthday, too – seriously.
Good friends and whiskey took my mind off sausage-making for a while. Added bonus: I get leftovers for at least a week and have lots of Guinness lying around. 
I try not to feel like a shit-heal for not being able to help cover costs for the Irish party we had. Heather covered the whole thing which is nowhere near the only reason why she’s so sweet. Why she continues to put up with me is a mystery only a woman can understand.
Seattle Aliens 