Rock Bottom

And no, the title isn't referring to Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's bottom, which I'm sure is a huge disappointment to some of you.

Do you smell what the Rock is cooking?

No, I am referring to the current state of affairs that is my life. So, for those of who are big on schadenfreude, good news! This post is going to be a dozy.

When last we left off, our hero-- that's me-- was in a bitter spiral of despair and depression based off of a number of tragic events. I had been unemployed for a period of four months and unable to find a new job and even worse, an orange buffoon had just been elected the leader of the free world. After my last blog post, I figured I needed to take some time and get my head together. Cool down and come up with some kind of plan to navigate this new, frightening world I would soon find myself in.

Well, it's been about five months since that decision, and I'm sad to say that I am officially knee deep in the shit. Bleak political landscape aside-- after all, there isn't much I can do about that except protest, write letters, and bug those in power-- my employment situation has not improved at all. In fact, quite the opposite.

I have hit rock bottom, folks. I stand at the precipice of a looming abyss, desperately swinging my arms in a futile effort to maintain my balance. I used up my unemployment benefits back in February. I have no money, no options, and no time remaining. The one job I have heard back from since I started looking back in August keeps having delays and technical difficulties preventing me from starting. Thus I find myself in the awkward and humiliating position of contemplating moving back in with my mom. If I don't find some form of employment in the next week or so, I'll have to do just that, as I won't have the money to pay next months rent.

Though this is a viable option too

Needless to say, I'm a wee bit depressed and miserable at how terrible things have been working out for me of late.  Keeping my head up and trying to stay positive is increasingly difficult, especially when you consider that my entire adult life has been the same struggle, the same constant drudgery through one misfortune after another. Each choice, each action, seems to lead to something worse. I feel like Charlie Brown, trying again and again to kick that football, thinking that maybe this time that bitch Lucy-- or as I like to call her, Life-- won't pull it away at the last second.

"Sorry, Darren, you gotta be quicker than that!"

When you are in a situation such as mine, you can't help but examine your past, looking for that one thing, that one action that caused events to morph into a shit spiral of epic proportions. It's a futile effort that does more harm than good, of course-- like digging at a wound trying to heal over. Because regardless of what may have happened in the past, it does nothing to change the present.

But on the bright side, they say humility is good for you. Considering all of the humble pie I've been eating, I'd say I'm set.

Little known fact, humble pie is pecan. I hate pecan.

Fear Realized

So the unthinkable has happened: Donald "I'm a Cheeto" Trump has, against all reason, been elected to be the next President of the United States.

Over the last 48 hours, I've been afflicted with a welter of emotions, as have a lot of people. I'm going to come right out and admit this, and to hell if it appears weak: I am scared. I've never been so afraid in my entire life of what's to come. No other republican candidate has ever inspired such rampant terror in my heart as this man. Had any of the other candidates been elected, I could have dealt with it. I voted against George Bush. He won anyway, and I was annoyed. I disliked his policies, but I never questioned whether or not he was fit for the office. Had any other republican been elected, I could cope. But not this man.

I am horrified that so many people bought into-- nay, encouraged-- the racist, sexist, fascist vitriol that he has spewed for months. He has contradicted himself on multiple occasions on national television, and his followers ate it up like the giant bag of cheetos he comes from. Over the past year, minorities (myself included), Muslims, Hispanics, and immigrants of all types have been harassed, insulted, threatened, and assaulted by his followers-- which includes the KKK--  people who now feel justified in committing atrocities against their fellow human beings. Within two days of his being the president elect, the violence and harassment has spiked.

I am so very afraid-- for myself, for minorities, for immigrants, for Muslims, and for the LGBT community. I'm frustrated that we as a country seem bound and determined to take one step forward and two steps back. 

We have now collectively decided that we should have a man in office with zero knowledge of politics or foreign relations. Oh, and let's not forget a lack ethics and morals. 

Over the last 48 hours, I have heard two basic responses to my fears. 1. You're overreacting; things will not change that much. And 2. Get over it.

To all the people in Category 1, I say this to you: You are very wrong. Perhaps you have good reasons for voting for Donald "I'm King of the Oompa Loompas" Trump. I'm not so cynical to assume that all the people who voted for him are racist, bigoted, homophobic twats; hell, I doubt most of you are. But whether you realize it or not, you have voted into office a candidate who believes it is okay to grope women because he's famous, who believes that Muslims should be required to register-- which happened to another group of people fairly recently in history-- who has questioned and insulted the intelligence of Black Americans, who has called overweight women "dogs" and "pigs"...

I've also heard that many voted for him because of their beliefs or their ethics, to which I am forced to question just what those are, if you support someone who has done what I have just described-- on national television in full view of thousands. If you believe in and agree with Donald "Dog Shit in an Orange Bag" Trump, then I am disgusted and insulted in having associated with you, and you can fuck off.

Because actions speak louder than words, and his followers have demonstrated what they will do now that someone just as disgusting as them is in power. The masses that are terrified of this saggy sack of awful are more than justified in their fear, because violence and harassment have been instigated at an ever increasing rate. 

To those in Category 2, I say to you: Go to Fucking Hell. He may have won the election, much to the chagrin and outrage to more than half the country, but we don't have to "deal with it." Telling us to "get over it" is no different than saying "get over it" to a rape victim; and before I am accused of hyperbole, I will remind you all that this is a man who condones the groping of women, who admits to doing it himself, who believes that women are objects. Sexual assault is not funny, and whether you call it "locker room talk" or not changes nothing. It is not at all far fetched to include the potential for rape along with all the Muslim prison camps that are bound to spring up once they get registered and tattooed.

And I'd like to add how humorously hypocritical it is that the same people who tell us to "get over it" and "deal with it" are the same douches who rioted in the streets with guns because President Obama was elected. It's funny how easy it is to take the high ground and when you are already on top.

And speaking of the high ground, another trend I've seen over the last couple of days are the same paranoid rednecks scrambling to horde their guns cause "Obama is gon' take'em" suddenly acting reasonable and magnanimous. "We need to heal the divide," they say with smug sanctimonious expressions. "Let's come together as a country." Now that their candidate won, they can suddenly sit back and act confused that people are protesting, as if they themselves weren't doing the exact same thing four years ago, except more violently. Suddenly the time has come to be reasonable. 

Sorry, Hillbilly Hank. No.

Because what they truly mean is, "You need to settle down and let us have our way, because we won and you lost. Suck it up and join our fascist regime." You can preach "healing the divide" all you want, but you aren't fooling anyone with this sympathy game; it's nothing but verbal judo designed to make those who are rightly outraged feel foolish for not feeling the same way you do. Well, fuck you very much, because it isn't going to work. Because it is obvious that you don't care about how the losing side feels. Why would you? You get your way regardless.

So to both groups, you are wrong. Civil rights are going to be infringed, healthcare will be yanked from millions of Americans, and the environment will be trashed. Things will not be okay, nor will we just stand back and deal with it. You can try to pretend to be the reasonable side all you want, but you have let a festering heap of corruption become arguably the most powerful man in the world, and his actions are on your head.

In summation, we will be lead by a wrinkled old oompa loompa who is bound and determined to become Hitler 2.0, a vice president who believes you can electrocute the gay out of people, and a house and senate who will let them get away with it. 

Congrats.

Signed,

One of those Uppity Colored Boys

The Story of a Bridge Troll

When I mention to someone that I'm lonely, or in dire need of social interaction, the usual response I get is, "you should go out." To which I do my best to suppress my hands instinctive desire to punch them in the face. Instead, I shrug and say, "sure, you might be right."

But the truth is, that simple statement opens up a can of cluster fuck. You see, with few exceptions, my ventures into the outside world of social interaction is a three step process that ultimately ends in disaster, and I'll tell you why.

Step 1: Introvert Psych Up
I make no secret that I'm an introvert, and anyone who has been around me for more than five minutes knows this about me. As an introvert, I have a finite amount of energy. When my energy reserves are maxed out, I can be the charming, funny guy with a rapier wit that you all know and love. To achieve this state, I need to spend a good amount of time building myself up, telling myself how nice it will be to hang out with folks. Depending on my mood and what has been going on, it can take hours to days for this to happen.

But once I venture forth, being around other people quickly taps into those reserves. Give it enough time, and I become a grumpy, grouchy, cantankerous bastard who will quite literally try to chew your head off. And worse still, energy that has been lost in mere hours takes days or sometimes weeks to replenish itself.

So generally, I find myself hesitant to make the effort, since it feels like I lose more than I gain.

Step 2: Bridge Troll Disappointment
For whatever reason, I seem to have a difficult time making new friends or interacting with people out in public. I don't know what it is about me, but I quickly find myself feeling like an outcast. An almost tangible bubble forms around me, encouraging people to avoid reaching out with me.

For example, a few nights ago, my roommate bullied me into going out to karaoke with her and some of her friends. I was reluctant, because I could already tell what my night would be like, but she's persistent and has a heart darker than the deepest pit of Hell; Maleficent flinches and avoids meeting her eyes whenever they happen to pass each other in her castle.

"Please don't hurt me!"

Once we arrived, I quickly found myself... by myself. Oh, the roommate was standing right next me, but she might has well have been miles away. The was a sizable number of people attending. Everyone had their own groups of friends to chat and drink and sing with. The roommate had her friends as well. And I had no one. So in no time flat, I became what I hate the most: the awkward wall flower with his face glued to his phone in a vain attempt to appear nonchalant rather than simply sad.

The few attempts to chat up random npc's was meet with polite disinterest; I wasn't part of their circle, and thus I might as well not exist. I leaned back against my table and watched as people laughed and danced. Couples held each others hands and made out on what passed as a dance floor while one by one, karaoke singers took turns at the mic.

To be fair, the roommate tried to pry herself away from her clique long enough to chat, but I think it was a wasted effort overall.

I was outcast. Not unlike a troll, I watched the peoples have a good time while I huddled in the shadows of my bridge, close enough to touch but also a billion miles away. It's a burden I've had to deal with for as long as I can remember when it comes to parties and any other social event.

I never feel as alone as I do when I everyone around me is having a good time, and I have nothing but my phone to keep me company. Much to my shame, a sense of bitter resentment wells up in me every time I find myself in that uncomfortable situation. Which leads me to...

Step 3: Bitter Resentment
That little adventure was on Thursday, and we were there for perhaps four hours. It is now Sunday, three days later, and I'm still grumpy and not a little depressed. That bitter resentment is still there, like a bad after- taste in my mouth. No matter what I use to wash it away-- video games, movies, books-- it still lingers, like a taco fart in an unventilated bathroom.

The thing that really bugs me is that it makes no sense. I'm a decent looking, intelligent, funny guy. I'm not awkward in anyway that I can perceive. I even try to shower every once and a while. And yet I might has well be wearing a sign that says "don't talk to me."

Even worse is when I'm reminded of how alone I am on the relationship front. A week and a half ago, I went to see Lindsey Stirling live in Seattle, something I had been looking forward to for months. And yet, when I arrived, I was once again faced with the awful realization that I'm alone. I took my seat and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I was literally surrounded by couples. Front, back, and to each side, it was date night.

If that wasn't awkward and depressing enough, one of the couples turned to me and asked, "Why are you here by yourself? Surely a good-looking man like yourself should have a lady on your arm."

Gee, thanks for making me feel even worse.

'Because I'm going to die alone,' I thought to myself as I plastered a fake smile on my face and said out loud, "I couldn't find anyone who was free for the evening."

At least the concert itself was amazing.

Now I find myself trapped in a weird rock and a hard place situation. If I stay in, I get lonely and depressed. If I go out, I get lonely and depressed. And from what I can tell, there isn't much of a plan C. My attempts at meeting new people and making new friends always seems to crash and burn like the Hindenburg disaster, leaving me with mounting frustration along with that bitter resentment I mentioned earlier.

Gaze upon my social life and despair

Birthday Number 34

So today is my birthday. A day that, until last year, I was usually excited for. I've always looked forward to my birthdays, even as I grew older and was denied all of those things that make birthdays great: cake, ice cream, parties, and presents.

Nowadays, all I can look forward to is counting how many well wishes I receive on Facebook. And while I appreciate people taking time out of their lives to give me a birthday shout-out, it rings hollow when compared to the festive birthdays of the past. This is especially true this year; being unemployed has robbed me of the spending money to go out and do something fun, and the majority of my friends live in different states.

Normally, I look at my birthday as a day of renewal, a personal new year. I contemplate my goals and spend time hoping the coming year is going to be grand-- only to have those hopes fall short, shattering apart not unlike raw eggs on concrete.

My hopes.

But, while I could never be mistaken as an optimist, I can at least stubbornly cling to the dream that this coming year will be the exception to the epic crap salad that has been my adult life. In the spirit of that dream, I've compiled a short list of lessons I've learned over the last orbital trip around the sun. In no particular order:

9 times out of 10, I can make better food than I can buy at a store. Especially chicken soup.
This one is pretty basic, but it helps to keep it in mind. Barring extreme illness, it's better to take some extra time to cook a meal myself rather than rely on the questionable quality of a prepackaged meal. I'm not Gordon Ramsey by any means, but I'm good enough to produce tasty stuff.

The exception being baked goods. I just... no.

Mine are usually worse than this.

It's better to try and not succeed than not try at all.
2016 has been a humbling year for me. The two big endeavors of my life have been building an acting career and a writing career. Sad to say, my acting career doesn't seem to be happening. When I first got into my talent agency, I was enthusiastic beyond measure. Now two years later, and I've all but given up. I'm not getting enough work to make a continued effort worth it; the last acting job I had was in February. I've had nary an audition since, despite getting a number of availability checks; for whatever reason, I'm not getting the opportunities. Acting is an expensive business; classes are expensive, head shots are expensive, and travel is expensive. As much as it pains me to say, I'm not making nearly enough from acting to continue at this point.

Now obviously that's a kick in my morale balls. But as sucktastic as it is, at least I can happily say that I've given it an honest attempt. The same cannot be said for my writing endeavors.

In my last birthday post, I had declared that I would have my book in publishable condition; it would be edited, test read, and ready to either be self published or sent out to the big publishing houses. Long story short, I spent this past year doing everything but work on that poor, neglected book. Unlike my acting career, I haven't given it much effort, despite it being on my mind near-constantly. I've nagged at myself, berated myself, threatened myself, and called myself all sorts of mean names in order to actually get off my ass and start writing. Which would mean getting back on my ass, since I don't have a standing desk...

The point is, I'm very disappointed at myself, and if I could jump back to September 18th, 2015, I'd actually do this thing and prevent a year from draining away faster than Donald Trumps dignity.

It's easier to accept people for who they are and move on, rather than getting caught up in their drama.
It took a long time for me to get at this point, but I'm here now. As I get older, I've come to realize that I don't have the time or energy to deal with the bullshit. I learned this lesson from dealing with my little brother. I love my little brother very much, and I know he loves me too. The problem is that we are complete opposites in so many respects, and we have nothing in common beyond being blood. Nothing. No interests or hobbies at all. We rarely talk, because we have nothing to talk about.

It wasn't always like this. When we were children, my brother and I were closer than close; despite being older, I didn't speak much as a small child, so my little brother often translated what I wanted to say. Sadly, time and distance as withered that once close bond, and now we're almost strangers.

To compensate, my little brother always acts like a 12 year old when dealing with me; he calls me names, he initiates wrestling matches, and other frivolity. For years, it would bug the hell out of me, because I'm not 12 anymore. So of course I'd get angry at him, and we'd get into fights.

But once I realized what he's doing, I just kind of went with the flow. My little brother has many flaws, and can be a considerable headache to not just myself, but the rest of the family as well. But I find that I don't get mad at him as much anymore. He is who he is, and while I certainly don't approve, I'm not going magically change him. So I'll just shake my head and move on whenever his actions causes grief.

Always make sure you have toilet paper in the bathroom before you do your business.
Learned that the hard way.

Where's your god now?

I'm ill-suited to the daily grind.
If I've learned anything from the three years at my former job, it's that I'm ultimately not cut out for the 9-5 grind. I'm just not. Most people are accepting of that routine, and more power to them. I am not, and I need to stop forcing my square peg to fit into that circle.

That didn't sound as dirty in my head.

The point is, I need to start looking outside the box, because the inside of the box is filled with the rancid scent of farts from a group of lactose-intolerant obese men just returning from an orgy at Baskin Robbins.

Time to fuel up.

And finally:
No matter what I want to do in life, I'll have to work for it.
Since I wasn't born a member of the Kardashian clan, I'm just going to have to accept that nothing is going to be handed to me on a silver platter. That includes any sort of success in this writing thing. A big part of the inertia this past year involving my book was that it would actually require work. Well, that and the crippling self doubt.

Ugh.





I want to give a big Thank You to everyone who has stuck around and actually read my blog over the years. I'm always pleasantly surprised whenever I receive feedback, criticisms, and well-wishes. I appreciate you taking the time to read my silly rants.

An Ode to September

*Warning: Don't let the title fool you. This isn't an actual ode, because I'm a terrible poet and wouldn't dream of inflicting my poor attempts on you. I'm an asshole, not a fucking asshole.

September is a weird time of the year for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. For most, it marks the end of the summer months and heralds the beginning of autumn; the air picks up a certain crisp chill, and the leaves turn from their normal verdant into vibrant shades of orange, yellow and brown. And of course, I can't fail to mention the fall scents:  decaying leaves and fucking pumpkin spice everything. I'm sure all the white girls are rejoicing as they slip on their uugs and make their way to the nearest Starbucks for a steaming cup of pumpkin spice vomit.

When you see these everywhere, it's fall.

For me, September has always marked the beginning of an onslaught of ironies. I find myself anticipating it with a surge of excitement, but also a deep seated dread. There's joy that comes from watching the beautiful colors erupt from the trees, and sadness because the warm, carefree summer months of my youth are gone forever. And of course, the fall means that winter is right around the corner.

Yes...

September is also the month of my birth, and thus marks the beginning of the end of another year of my life. As time goes by, I tend to stress out more and more about my birthday. Not because I'm inching closer to the grave; I tend towards the philosophical when it comes to aging and death, and try to look at it as a journey rather than a frightening cessation of my earthly existence.

"Keep telling yourself that..."

Rather, the thing that stresses me out are wasted time and missed opportunities, of which I'm sure there are countless. As my birthday draws near, I can't help but reflect on the past year, on my accomplishments. Or lack of accomplishments as the case may be, because I haven't done a damn thing that would warrant celebration. Just more of the same: struggle to pay the rent and bills, get enough food in my stomach, and dodge the student loans, which are more persistent than Pepe Le Pew on the trail for pussy.

Pepe and his pussy...cat. Jesus, that's just creepy as hell.

Now that September is here, I find myself contending with the conflicting sensations of despair and determination, agony and elation. I'll be 34 this year, which is pushing me firmly into the middle age category. That's frightening to me; my teens and twenties are firmly behind me now, and I can safely be referred to as a thirty-something. Gray hairs have begun to creep into my beard like weeds, and I'm certain that if I hadn't started shaving my head years ago, I'd be going bald now. At this point, people my age are supposed to be firmly entrenched in careers and families; I'm still working low paying jobs and I can't remember the last time I wasn't single as fuck. Both my younger and older brothers have families of their own, complete with children. Me, I haven't been on a date since I entered my 30's. 

BUT, humiliating and depressing facts aside, I also can't help but get excited about September. After all, it's my birthday! Sure, instead of presents and cake, I get gray hair and old age, but it's still my birthday. And let's not forget that a new year means the opportunity to do better than last year. It's the chance to set down some goals and possibly work on those goals. Hell, maybe even complete a few of them. 

In short, it's a beginning of sorts. I just hope it isn't the beginning of a mid-life crisis.

I certainly don't feel any older than I did since last year, or the year before that. The fact is, I have to remind myself that I'm not in my twenties sometimes. It doesn't hit home until I witness something that firmly slaps me in the face and sternly remarks, "You aren't a kid anymore. Deal with it." 

For example, a few weeks ago, I was sitting on the bus, headed home after lollygagging downtown. Sitting across from me were a small group of teens. I was struck with just how much time has passed since I was in high school. There was a certain youthful exuberance about them; their every motion seemed to jolt with a hidden electricity, as if sitting still was impossible for them. It was refreshing to see, and also disappointing, because it wasn't until I was presented with a demonstration of that energy did I realize that I lacked much of it. 

That isn't to say that I'm hunched over on a walker, gasping for air because I took five steps. But I can recall, long ago, moving and reacting to stimuli in the same manner. Now, unless I'm in the grip of an emotional response, I can't seem to muster that same level of energy. High school was 16 years ago, but it seems much longer.

Interlude

It probably doesn't need to be said again, but I have to: getting laid off from my old job has been such a RELIEF. I can't tell you how many times I've paused in the middle of some humdrum activity and just let out a huge sigh of relief. It's not unlike that wonderful sensation of unclasping your bra after a long day at the office and letting the girls breath free. I hear. That is, I've heard that the ladies don't like...

Ahem.

The last time I was in such a situation was about four years ago. My move down to Seattle from Anchorage hadn't been planned too far in advance; I believe I had about three weeks to get my affairs in order before I left the Last Frontier. Once I arrived, I found myself in a situation that I could only describe as painful; I had no job, no savings, and was living with my mother. At age 30, that's not exactly good for the old ego. At the time, I was full of vim and vigor, and determined to get on my feet as soon as possible. I was optimistic enough to believe that I could find work with alacrity.

I can be so silly sometimes.

What followed was  roughly 18 months of misery and depression. When I wasn't filling out applications, I was slumped in my room, trying to distract myself with copious binge watching of netflix. It wasn't until after I finally got my job and traded one style of misery for another that I realized how much time I had wasted. During all that time, I didn't do much of any writing, nor did I work on my acting, or any other possible hobbies that could have lifted me from my slump. It was only once I was getting stressed out at work did I lament the sand at the bottom of the hour glass. I recall stomping out of work after one hellish evening and vowing to myself that if I were ever struck with the opportunity to have an unfettered schedule, I would seize it the way Garfield seizes lasagna.

And now here I am.

I cannot help but feel as if I'm in an interlude of sorts. Barring any unforeseen complications, I find myself with a few months time in which I can focus on my poor neglected book without fear of homelessness and starvation. That isn't to say that looking for a job isn't a priority; I have no desire to try and live off of unemployment for the next six months. But, I am afforded the time and leisure to actually focus on finding a job that is right for me, rather than frantically grabbing at whatever fruit happens to hang lowest to the ground. Especially if that fruit is coconut.

I hate these things. It's the consistency. And the taste. 

But simply finding a suitable job isn't going to cut it anymore.

If the past three years at my former job has taught me anything, it's that I'm not truly cut out for the traditional job thing. I don't respond well to authority; I'm rebellious, smart-mouthed, and plagued with temper issues. I've never been the type who is satisfied reporting to a boss. I've come to realize that I'm just not suited for that kind of life. My biggest fear is that I'll end up getting another job, and being stuck in the exact situation I was in before: stressed out, angry, and feeling caged.

Pictured: the average 9-5 worker.

And since I'm sure no one wants to read another three years worth of angst-ridden blog posts about why my life is shitty, it would behoove me to find an alternative route. Thus, henceforth I will be focusing my energy on finding a way out. I don't know exactly what I'll do, but something has to be done. My clearest path is, you guessed it, writing.

One of the things that I find so attractive about the idea-- the goal-- of being a published writer is that I would be my own boss. I could do something that I like doing to make an honest living without answering to some corporate mouthpiece willing to treat me like a pawn and sacrifice me as such for the sake of "business needs." Frankly, I'm tired of being someone else's bitch in return for essentially pennies.

How many is your dignity worth?

But really, who isn't?

So the interlude will likely last for some duration while I work on how to escape the infinite loop of Samsara. Getting employment-- work that offers a decent wage without sacrificing my physical health and mental well being-- is just the first step, and most definitely not the end goal. Not like last time, when I was blinded by the prospect of large pay checks and getting out of my mom's house.

Beyond mere work, the real goal is to get to a point where I can look forward to the future with optimism and hope, rather than bleak despair. It's saying something that I can actually say with a straight face that I believe it's possible.

The Great Escape!

Today, August 1st, would have marked the third year anniversary of my being hired at my job. I say "would have" because my being employed at the job is not a thing anymore. That's right, the job and I have broken up! Much like a that awkward couple who only stayed together because they fear being alone more than making each other miserable, the job and I sort of leaned on each other in a decidedly unhealthy manner; I needed the thin sheets of green paper hat it provided in order to survive, while it needed someone to answer phones and do busy work.

We stuck it out for a while, tried to make things work; there was even couples therapy involved, but in the end, we just couldn't handle it.

It happened on another Monday a couple of weeks ago, July 18th to be exact. I came into work, anticipating a standard Monday: too much work and not enough people to do it. Monday's, for some strange reason, is always to busiest day of the week. Starting at 5 pm, everyone up and decides that they just have to visit the ER-- apparently it's what all the cool kids do.

Quick, to the ER!

When I walked through the doors, I was expecting the usual: work nagging me in the form of blinking lights and the infernal screeching of phones ringing off the hook, hospital staff on the other end convinced that their phone call is the most important thing going on at that moment, and I need to drop whatever I'm doing to handle their problem for them. I'm not bitter. Nope.

Instead, I found work waiting for me with a call, patiently serious look on its face. Uh oh, that's never a good sign; the irrational screams I can deal with, but when work is quiet...

"We need to talk," Work said in way of greeting as I prepared to take my seat. Never a good sign.

"Sure," I responded. I moved to set my backpack down at my desk, but work was motioning me to follow it.

"Bring your bag with you," Work said.

Well then.

I followed Work out of the office and down the hall, making small talk along the way. I was led into a small conference room and bid to take a sit. Work left and returned a moment later with a lady. "This is HR," Work said, introducing us.

Work and HR sat down with me and began to speak. The long and short of it was that the company, due to business needs, was eliminating all of the part-time shifts, of which mine was one. They had three open shifts for me to choose from. Looking over them, I quickly concluded that none of them were desirable; each was a full-time morning shift. Working morning shifts would pretty much erase any ability to audition and get acting jobs; most take place downtown, a good distance away even if the traffic gods show mercy. With only a 30 minute lunch break, I couldn't even use that to try and squeeze one in every now and again. Even worse, working mornings would mean less pay, because the evening shifts receive a pay bump to make up for working god awful hours and murdering your social life.

But when it got down to it, I just couldn't work there full-time. The Job and I couldn't be around each other for that much time; the stress and anxiety would cause me to put my fist through one (or several) computer screens.

So I did the only logical thing, and turned down the offer. Job, knowing me as well as it did, understood and had anticipated my decision. And so I was officially laid off.

I couldn't be more jubilant.

This is me. All of them are me.

The break up was amicable. We each expressed mutual hopes for each others well being and left it at that. I'm shocked to say that I left without any residual venom in my system, and even stranger, with a clean job record and no bad references.

Real talk, I've spent years griping and complaining and bitching about the pressure and stress the job brought me. It started out pretty well, but it quickly spiraled out of control, until I began to hate it and dread going. For the average adult, work is the place you tolerate in order to not have to invest in prime real estate on a street corner with a fancy card board box. It's not a place they enjoy going to, but it balances out. Very few of us get to work our dream jobs and exist in that blissful mind state of actually enjoy working. Some of us are in my position, where you actively loath your work.

I can finally put that feeling behind me. And damn, does it feel amazing. For the longest time, I felt as if there was a massive weight pressing down on my chest, as if Donald Drumpf's ego had suddenly decided to us my ribs as a sofa.

So I now find myself in a situation that the average working adult dreads more than visits from the in-laws; laid off and on unemployment, spending hours of the day looking for work, wondering how I'll make ends meet. But I'm honestly not worried. I feel a strange sense of... optimism?

No, that can't be right. Optimism and I are an oxymoron, like tall dwarf, cold fire, and intelligent Trump voter. But somehow, there it is.

As an aside, it has taken me a couple of weeks to actually get this down; initially, I was going to post this the night of the Great Escape-- I mean the layoff. But I've had a bitch of a time getting the words down in my characteristically hilarious manner. I pointed this out to a friend of mine, who promptly responded, "Well yeah. Your humor is self-deprecating and acts as a defense mechanism. Since you're actually happy, you don't know how to write it." Well, to my friend, I say have this retort:

"You face is a defense mechanism! What, what!"