GOODNIGHT SEVERANCE–

The homepage for the State of California’s Employment Development Department laughs in my face. Lets just call it what it is. You’re a joke that can’t hold a job and has to rely upon the government to survive. UNEMPLOYMENT CHECKS. There, I said it. “To file a claim start here.” I can’t believe I’m “here.” I really fucked myself believing it was OK that I got fired while looking like a downtown tramp, thinking it was maybe even a good thing.

Eight weeks and one day have gone by and I’ve received no response from Amy. Not even a confirmation that she received my email, or a confirmation to the confirmation email asking if she could confirm that she got my original email.

My stories may be lost in inter-web land. However, I find it more likely that she thought they were written by a pretentious know-nothing. She must have thought they were so wretched that I didn’t even deserve the decency of a “they’re good but need a little more work” email. My mood has been running somewhere between an orange and a red. Inching closer to the line of high and severe risk of complete panic.

I have since applied to more stooge jobs, but at this point it seems even they don’t want me. It turns out getting fired for being a drunken mess makes it hard to find new employer. For some reason, legitimacy speedily flies out the window.

Congratulations! You’ve won three hundred and 382 dollars a week in unemployment. I’ll never be able to look the mailman in the eyes again. He’ll know my secret. I’m part of society’s cross-eyed elite. At times I can’t help but feel like karma had some hand in this. Revenge for the vengeance night with Katherine.

It’s funny how my theme song has changed over the last two months. It started out in the tune of “Everything in Its Right Place,” off Radiohead’s Kid A with it’s momentary bliss, and has since turned into something like “Paranoid Android,” off their Ok Computer–juvenile depression and all.

With a lack of stimulation, motivation quickly disappears.

I haven’t stepped outside my apartment or even washed my hair in four days. I feel my first dread forming on the back of my head and now spend countless hours each day toying with it.

I’m entertaining the idea of moving to Jamaica and becoming a Rasta-man who sells bad herb to unsuspecting tourists. Peter Tosh lyrics make this sound incredibly inviting. However, with my luck, peddling would last less than a week before I’d turn into the next Natalie Holloway. Just a less publicized one. CNN would find it harder to spin a story about a mid-twenties dope dealer with dreads.