From d4cefa135d6db053ce3fc18c58900580d554cfb1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: DTB Date: Thu, 8 Aug 2024 06:11:19 -0600 Subject: [PATCH] 2024-08-08 --- homepage.content | 335 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 335 insertions(+) diff --git a/homepage.content b/homepage.content index bafe788..5805379 100755 --- a/homepage.content +++ b/homepage.content @@ -1050,6 +1050,341 @@ pre { /* DRY who? */ } +/blah/2024-08-08.html + +It's the wee hour of the morning, nearly 0333 in my time zone. I'm hunched over +the keyboard like an alcoholic with its only bottle of whiskey, a heroin addict +with something arbitrary like some stick or something. I've been somewhat, kind +of, unemployed - not really, as I have a job at [...] I'm starting on the +ninth, but I put my two weeks' notice in and took them and now I've no +obligations as a result of employment 'til the ninth. Something primal has +awakened in me. My roommates don't know how to use the microwave. Here's what +they do: they pop the food in, watch the turntable spin inside the little view- +port, watch the cheese melt or ramen boil or butter soften, and when it +finishes they hit STOP and take the freshly heated food out of the microwave. +We are all scared of the microwave. I never used one in Maine, [...] never used +one in [...], nor did [...] here... the [...]s did use microwaves, I believe, +but [...] uses the microwave like a fox figuring out how to get a rabbit out of +a snare, hovering around it despite setting a time, eager to get the contents. +These are the sort of things I notice, not having a job. The terrible little +details. The microwave display is always on, as there's always a remainder, a +little bit left to go before someone hit STOP. I imagine the next user would +hit START, run the time out, add another minute like when you find the parking +meter already has one or two quarters in it. 0:11 just now. I hit STOP again. +0:00. STOP one more time. Now the display is off. The little things I notice. + +I've been reading Bukowski lately - Bukowski! Most dirty old men keep their +dirty old thoughts in their head, the sly tricksters - Bukowski takes his and +makes a million off the publishing, goes to the track with it and loses half of +it on a horse that had low odds in the first place. Capitalism takes the skim +off workers' creams. Then spends the rest of the money on prostitutes - a +girl's gotta eat. I get off to guro silently in the wee hours of the morning, +alone, hopefully. Bukowski attends an orgy, loudly announces his ejaculation, +shoots a hearty stream of cum into a lass he doesn't know has syphilis. Love is +a dog from hell. Yes indeed. Maybe I'll attend orgies, get syphilis in my +fifties too. Maybe I'll end up like one of the chicks he'd really dig. My ass +is nice but not Hollywood nice. I don't want syphilis though. + +: so why did I get in an argument with one of my roommates? + +Well, why not? There are a lot of reasons why - it is a good friend of mine, +despite everything, and I have a deep respect not only for its professional +work but for its character itself. Those are two of a million but this isn't +about the why not, now, is it? + +Why? Because I was pissed, right pissed, and I could feel the frustration in my +fingertips carving needle-like cuts into the air that was how abrasive I felt. +Like a low-grade sandpaper. And I knew my speech would cut worse than my +movement did - the pen is mightier than the sword, after all - and I knew I +would say some things I would regret. And I did. And I felt like shit before, +like even shittier shit - diarrhea? is that how you spell that? - afterwards, +and in the middle I felt quite rotten too. And my roommate was probably right, +but I think in a lot of ways I was right too. But the real crux of the matter, +the real Why Then, Why There, Why In That Manner, was that I was properly +pissed. + +I was pissed because, for the dozenth time, it was telling me I should get a +job other than [...]. A better-paying job with a better environment, better +people, better food safety standards... yeah, yeah. The first time, I laughed +this off. I couldn't afford to take time off work like that. Missing a +paycheck? It would have killed us. Maybe I was right. Then, later, I shot the +requests down - no, I don't want to move up. No, I don't want to find a new +job. I don't have the energy for a job hunt and a full time job. Implying a +part time job would do it for me. And I believed it would have. A nod. Dude, +/you/ get a job. It was trying. And trying for high roles, the upper eschelons +of employment - five, six figure salaries. It was qualified. It had one for a +bit. It was living at its parents, got a good job, brought a partner over, got +an apartment - that was the context for my coming here, being able to come +here. Rich friends put me up in their living room. Except the contract wasn't +renewed, my burger job kept us afloat but started to weigh me down enough to go +under. It was working, off and on but mostly off, a shit burger job like mine, +elsewhere, helping pay the bills while managing to find it in itself to spend +something like six hours a day on LinkedIn and Indeed and god knows what else +hunting for a way to better its position while watching me, a beginner-level +cook, quite talented at my own job, doing nothing to better my status, sinking +into a sorry mental state. Have you ever seen a friend die? Slowly, not fast +from a gunshot wound but from a thousand papercuts - bad job, bad friends, bad +drugs, bad account balance, bad overdraws, bad bad bad. I had the job and a +fiend on my back that usually was the cause of all these things; bad mental +health. And it was clutching me like a non-swimmer deathgrips a lifeguard. And +it was watching me go under again and again, coming back up for air only to +sink deep into a black sea - drowning. And it knew if it stopped swimming, +stopped looking for a way to get us out of this situation, it would drown too. + +But I didn't think about any of this. At the moment it told me, again, that I +should start looking for a new job, all I thought about was the fact that I was +paying all its bills, had been paying all its bills, for a while. Something +like eight or nine months but I probably said ten. And who was I to get the +burden of paying for an expensive apartment, meant for two people making decent +wages? A burger worker making one person's shit wage? Formerly homeless, +bitterly so - still living out of a backpack in my roommate's living room, in +an apartment I was paying for, while it got to sleep in the side room all to +itself and its partner? We were living paycheck to paycheck and had been for a +good while - my paycheck. None of which I got to see myself anymore. + +"Says the unemployed one?" + +My inkling of a plan, the little plan I had, was to wait until enough people +here had jobs that I could go part time at [...]. Then, a proper job hunt. Take +some time off, do some writing, get a high paying job, have income, dump +savings into finding a bigger place for the [...] of us, meanwhile having the +disposable income to go out, do stuff. This all hinged on someone else getting +a job. I and one other had jobs, the roommate did not, the others weren't +likely to be able to find jobs soon. So while I had a burden, I assigned in my +own head a burden upon it that it didn't know about. + +And then it started saying god knows what while I lay on the futon reading an +article on my phone and when I tuned back in it was talking about how it wasn't +quite sunshine and roses to have someone occupying the living room 24/7. And I +was blinded by my last paycheck having gone, as did all the past ones from my +at the time current employer, to the apartment, and to food, and to bills. It +was mad about me occupying the apartment I was paying for? + +"So, what, do you want me to move out?" + +Meanwhile, before I had arrived in [...], the living room was mostly its. It +could go to its office, work, need a change of scenery, go to the living room, +work. Luxury, maybe. But the common area was now de facto the Trinity area. + +Then [...] started saying something, and [...] piggybacked off that, and my +brain started shorting as the broken neural pathways formed when yelled at by +my parents fired and fucked with the rest of the system, and I kernel panicked +and rolled over and started crying. Blah blah blah. Of course, there was a +little more to it than that, but I had worked a nine hour shift that day and +had to go in early the next day and really? The only thing I was focused on was +work, despite being at home. Work and the idea of being able to not work so +much. + +I think my job interview for [...], the first job I had in [...], happened +2023-10-30. I might have had a shift or two, nominally an orientation (that I +had given myself many times), before 2023-11-05. Then 2023-11-09 I started on a +somewhat regular schedule. And then I worked (counting all the shifts marked on +the calendar)... + +2023-11 6*5 + 7*2 + 8*8 + 9 + 11 + = 30 + 14 + 64 + 9 + 11 + = 128hrs + +2023-12 4 + 6*10 + 7 + 7.5 + 8*5 + 8.5 + 9 + 10*2 + 12 + = 4 + 60 + 7 + 7.5 + 40 + 8.5 + 9 + 20 + 12 + = 168hrs + +2024-01 4 + 5*3 + 6*9 + 7 + 8*6 + 9 + = 4 + 15 + 72 + 7 + 48 + 9 + = 155hrs + +2024-02 5*6 + 6*15 + 7 + 8*4 + 8.5 + 9 + = 30 + 90 + 7 + 32 + 8.5 + 9 + = 175.5hrs + +2024-03 5*5 + 6*5 + 7 + 8 + 8.5 + 9*6 + = 25 + 30 + 7 + 8 + 8.5 + 54 + = 112.5hrs + +2024-04 5*2 + 6*3 + 7*2 + 8*5 + 9*6 + 9.5 + = 10 + 18 + 14 + 40 + 54 + 9.5 + = 145.5hrs + +2024-05 6*5 + 7*4 + 8.5 + 9*10 + = 30 + 28 + 8.5 + 90 + = 156.5hrs + +2024-06 2*2 + 6*3 + 7*4 + 8.5*5 + 9*7 + = 4 + 18 + 28 + 42.5 + 63 + = 155.5hrs + +2024-07 2 + 5.5 + 6*4 + 7 + 8.5*4 + 9*9 + = 2 + 5.5 + 24 + 7 + 34 + 81 + = 153.5hrs + +total = 1350hrs + +This includes [...], a second job I worked in January and February to help pay +the bills. Nine months. That number is very abstract to me, an alien concept. +A single digit. But now listing the months, the hours. Ho boy. That wasn't +sunshine and roses. + +I think it was right that I was a lousy roommate - a godawful one in fact. I +got home from work exhausted every day, often went to sleep right out of work, +was irritated and unfocused and very often high. I don't think I would have +survived without this stupor though. And I don't think finding a better job +would have worked, at least not until recently. But then my informed logic +turned to a schizophrenic delusion and well after it was necessary I responded +like a hurt animal to the suggestion that I get a new job. And, well, it turned +out poorly. + +Another reason I was pissed is it kept talking about its apartment. + +When I got to [...] I didn't have a mailing address which complicated my +getting a job. I used the address of this apartment but knew come tax season, +one or two months away, I needed a valid address. The lease of this apartment +said the only ones who could receive mail here were the ones on the lease, and +I wasn't on it. Not only was my using a false address dangerous for me but, if +the apartment landlords knew I was staying here, it could have potentially +meant eviction for [...] and [...]. It was paramount that I find some way to +receive mail legitimately. + +I went to the post office to try to get a P.O. Box but I needed existing proof +of address - which they would verify. Fuck. [...] said it would ask its parents +if I could use their address but didn't and I felt too self conscious to ask it +to do so. I called multiple homeless resources looking for someone, anyone, who +could just receive my mail and let me pick it up. Nothing. My last option was +this homeless shelter way downtown in the city so after work I walked an hour +and a half over. By the time I arrived night had fallen and two hobos outside +were gathered around a barrel fire trying to keep themselves warm. A bad sign. +The place looked like a prison, with barbed wire and giant iron gates keeping +everyone inside. I buzzed in and waited in a room with armed guards discussing +the worst crackheads they had seen that day, laughing about them. They started +talking about this thing called Kratom which they called gas station heroin. I +scrolled reviews while waiting to be called for intake and found multiple +accounts of queer guests being abused there; trans people misgendered +regularly, everyone called slurs. Whatever. I just had to pass and go through +intake and maybe I would get an address. In intake it was clear I would have to +boymode. Alright whatever. Then I asked if I could use the place as a mailing +address. I would have to sleep there, probably once a week, in order to be able +to use the facilities. Fucking useless. I was not sleeping there. + +[...] and [...] picked me up. "Why did you go in? This place looks like a +prison. The reviews say they abuse queer folk. This was fucking dangerous." + +No shit. + +Later my at the time girlfriend heard about my going to the shelter and, I +heard from someone else, was angry at me for taking a risk like that. I had +taken a lot of risks by then, and a lot of them had come at once due to being +homeless and, honestly, suicidal. It broke up with me because it didn't want to +hear its girlfriend was found in some ditch somewhere. I understood. + +So eventually my roommate talked to its parents and I was able to use their +mailing address. I got my W-2 and proof of address, then eventually a bank +account and the other fixings of a real United States citizen. And I was not on +the lease. It had had Its apartment for about four to six months at that point. + +After five months of paying for this apartment, or something like that, plans +shifted and sputtered and realigned and it was decided: + [...] would leave with [...] to go to [...] and get an apartment. + I and [...] would be joined by [...], and continue to live here. + +[...] arrived. [...] arrived. For a short time, there were five. Then [...] and +[...] left for [...]'s parents, as they decided five was too many for an +apartment of this size. I started to move into the side room, now to be my +room, formerly the office. I planned to get furniture, posters. The apartment +would be [...]'s, [...]'s, mine, jointly. I would get on the lease and start +using this apartment as my mailing address. I haven't received mail where I've +lived since 2023-04, have never been on a lease. I was really excited. + +The plans fell through. For reasons that were very fair, [...]'s parents didn't +work out. [...] and [...] came back and I let them take the office as they were +two and I was one; it didn't make a damn bit of sense to make them take the +living room. I moved my backpack, not yet unpacked, back to the living room. It +was nice to have [...] and [...] around again - they're good friends of mine. +I was kind of bummed to not have a room though. At least I would be on the +lease. + +Plans shifted, sputtered, started. I would not be on the lease. It would be the +four of them, the rest of them, as I already had an external mailing address. +The five of us would live together until we found a house, at which point we +would all be on the lease. And though we were five, though I had paid for the +apartment longer than it had, the apartment was once again [...]'s, and I was +once again in the living room. + +The way it saw it, I had made a great many choices to get here. I had +volunteered to come to [...] to help my friends out with rent, stayed and +continued to do so, was fine with [...] and [...] coming back and using the +room I was gonna get, and was just the grouch in the living room. The way I saw +it, I would come home from long shifts exhausted, agree to whatever I had to in +order to get back to sleep, wait for the sun to come and go back to work. I had +a lot of choices and did make them - but I don't know if I would agree that I +was given time to think them over, or that they really were choices at all, to +be honest. If I didn't come here I would have died in a Maine winter. Instead I +suffered in a [...] winter, then in the spring, then in the summer, to try to +make sure my friends - who are damn near my only friends - had a safe place to +live. Then I got back from work and was irritated at [...] for all of this and +telling me I should get a job I didn't hate now that I could and I decided if +it didn't want the golden goose in the living room honking occasionally but +paying its rent for Its Apartment, I would head out. But I didn't have anywhere +out to head. Back to homelessness? To a cage, or to a cold street, or to a car +in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere? That's why I resolved to kill +myself and why I ended up going on an acid trip instead. And I don't really +feel so bad about it all anymore. + +My parents weren't that great to me in ways that were way less great than any +of my friends' parents. I left once I hit 18 with a bunch of boxes filled with +random shit I grabbed from my, at that point, basically trashed room that had +gotten five years' worth of messy from the five years' worth of depression I'd +spend there at the tail end of eighteen years' worth of constantly being yelled +at and severely grounded over minor faults (for example, a year and a half over +holding a spoon wrong). In a lot of ways I have matured since then, in a lot of +ways I am stunted in ways that alienate me from my peers - lack of +socialization and being used to neglect and abuse are a potent combo. I know my +upbringing and what I did to get out of it - I got a job, paid peanuts to rent +a room at a friend's house, cut off contact with my parents entirely, barely +scraped by and ate candy for supper most nights. I know the roommate with which +I argued had, if anything, a harder time - every step of the way. Given the +cards it had I probably would have folded. It's easy for a bird to change +countries. But this fish made it out of a fishbowl. What the fuck does a fish +do to get out of a bad fishbowl? It can't swim out of there. It has to jump. +There are a million things that could go wrong. Hit the floor, die. Hit the +wrong water (too salty or not salty enough), die. Hit water that's too hot or +too cold, go into shock, probably die. I've spent my life going everywhere I +damn well please, partially because I had the right connections and a streak of +being in the right place at the right time. What the fuck would I have done if +I didn't have that? + +It got a good job, got a good apartment, made it to another fishbowl. If this +was my second fishbowl I would lay claim too. Its good job was shit for it, but +it got out of the fishbowl. It gave a lot to do so. For the longest time I was +pissed at [...] more than anyone else because we're in its home turf, near its +parents. Everyone else came from places around the country. It was the one, I +thought, that didn't ante up. I didn't really figure the price it already paid, +the rounds before I sat at the table. + +My behavior was a result of overwork, overstress, lack of pay, preexisting +mental health conditions. Its behavior was a result of overwork, overstress, +lack of pay, preexisting mental health conditions, and me. I think that's where +the difference lies. That's why I'm not so bothered by it anymore. I've +apologized, it forgave me, I'm still a bit ashamed. Life goes on regardless. At +some point, still, I'm moving. I'm working on saving and getting my driver's +license. [...] and [...] think they would prefer to not live with me, at least +for a bit, which is how I took it, though they said something about +"considering the history" or whatever to leave it ambiguous. I've given my +phone number to a lot of people without getting a call back and I think I can +tell by now when I'm not gonna be getting a ring. At least I'll be able to know +somewhere in [...] the people I loved are living together and have a good shot +at good lives. + +I'm not sure where I'm moving just yet. [...], or maybe this state. I gotta get +a license first. I've been procrastinating studying, but only because it's +really boring. + +I hope I did a decent job of explaining the argument and the context around the +argument. [...] is still my friend and a close one. This isn't a grudge I bear. +A part of the intent of my writing this was to explain also the context around +my blah posts of the last ten months. + +It's 0600 now. + + /blah/2024-07-31.html : my acid trip